


Lannister and Tarth

by SeeThemFlying



Series: The Ice Cream Anthology [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BITTERsweet might be more appropriate, Bittersweet Ending, Black Comedy, Distantly Inspired by true events, F/M, Gets a bit dark, I've been informed by my readers that I need to look up what "Bittersweet" means, Inspired by a Film, hanky warning, regency au, victorian au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-10-27 18:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 56,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20764703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeThemFlying/pseuds/SeeThemFlying
Summary: Edinburgh, Scotland. 1828.Miss Brienne Tarth is suffocating at the pressures of being a proper young lady under the tutelage of her terrifying guardian, Lady Catelyn Stoneheart. Desperate for a new life for herself and her friend Sansa, she spends her evenings disguised as a man betting on bare knuckle boxing, in the hope of earning the money to launch their escape. When she meets Mr Jaime Lannister, a boxer from the wrong side of town, she gets involved in a scheme that could get her the cash, but ruin her reputation... forever...Inspired by a 2010 black comedy starring Simon Pegg… which was based on a true story.





	1. Brienne I

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! So... I did it. I thought I would just post the first chapter of this one. I've had this in the works for sometime now (I thought of it while writing "Woman Up" and have spent AAAAGGGGGEEEESSS getting the story straight in my head), but here it is!
> 
> Some of you correctly guessed that it is inspired on 2010's "Burke and Hare", which itself is based on true events that happened in Regency Scotland. Unlike the other fics in this series, this one is only loosely inspired by rather than a direct adaptation, so I will be taking MAJOR detours from what actually happens in the film (and what happened in history). I hope it keeps you guessing!
> 
> Now... before we start, I will say that this one is a black comedy that is much more bittersweet than the others in this series, but I will still endeavour to give you lots of laughs along the way. I hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Brienne Tarth finds it very hard to fit in with the other ladies of Edinburgh's polite society...

“And if a man entice a maid that is not betrothed, and lie with her, he shall surely endow her to be his wife…” droned Mrs Selyse Baratheon, as Brienne tried not to snore. “If her father utterly refuse to give her unto him, he shall pay money according to the dowry of virgins. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live…”

Mrs Baratheon's long ruminations on the Bible always managed to put Brienne into a coma, even as all the other ladies of the _Edinburgh Ladies Temperance and Virtue Society _pretended to listen. Miss Margaery Tyrell had gone glassy eyed, Miss Falyse Stokeworth was dying prettily in a corner (but that may have been more to do with her advanced state of consumption than anything else), and Miss Alys Karstark was picking at a loose thread of her dress. The only person who was paying any sort of attention at all was the esteemed Lady Catelyn Stark, who watched Selyse with her cool, unreadable eyes.

_Do not fall asleep, _Brienne told herself. _Do not fall asleep._

However, at some point during Mrs Baratheon's droning, Brienne clearly _did _fall asleep, as her old governess Mrs Roelle pinched her. "Stay awake. You are snoring like a moose! Young ladies do not behave so coarsely." Rubbing her rapidly reddening skin where Mrs Roelle had nipped her, Brienne once more endeavoured to stay awake.

_I am a young lady after all._

Once Mrs Baratheon had finished her quasi-sermon, Miss Margaery Tyrell got up to play the piano and sing. Brienne felt fairly confident that she would be able to stay awake during her performance because, although she was a young, pretty, accomplished young woman, Miss Margaery Tyrell had a voice like a drunk duck.

"I would like to sing for you a Scots folk song _Brave Danny Flint_," said Margaery as she sat at the piano, fluttering her eyelashes. As Miss Tyrell positioned herself artfully, Brienne found herself looking at Margaery's grandmother, the magisterial Mrs Olenna Tyrell. Brienne was gratified to see she looked as bored as Brienne felt. Clearing her throat, Margaery began to sing, completely missing the first note.

_"Hear you now the sad lament_

_Of Brave Young Danny Flint_

_Whose parents died of sickness_

_When she was not but ten."_

As Margaery sang, the ladies of the _Edinburgh Ladies Temperance and Virtue Society _began to move towards the buffet table, which Lady Catelyn had made sure was well stocked with cake. Uninterested in the fiddly little foods, Brienne tried to find someone to talk to. She knew she wouldn't have much luck; the ladies of the Society generally thought her quite _odd. _In the old days, she would have spoken to Lady Catelyn or Sansa, but none of that was possible now. Miss Sansa Stark was now Mrs Sansa Bolton, and lived in London with her horrid husband, writing Brienne plaintive letters asking for news of Edinburgh and complaining of her husband's cruelty. Brienne missed her more than words could say.

And Lady Catelyn? She just wasn't Lady Catelyn anymore... not after everything that had happened.

_"North she fled to take the Black_

_And leave her troubles past_

_She cut her hair and changed her name_

_To Danny Flint the Brave."_

Avoiding Mrs Roelle because she did not want another lecture on how very unladylike she was, Brienne went to sit next to Mrs Olenna Tyrell. The Tyrell matriarch was perched on her seat in unrivalled majesty, her hand resting on the handle of her cane.

"Ah, Miss Tarth. Have you had enough of bible readings?" she smiled, taking a sip from her hip flask. She often assured everyone it was a medicinal cough mixture for her weak lungs, but Brienne suspected it was gin.

"To last me for a year," said Brienne, trying to keep her voice level as she gave Mrs Tyrell a wry smile.

Mrs Tyrell returned the expression. "Aren't you just marvellous, my girl."

"Thank you," replied Brienne, her voice hovering on the edge of a laugh. "You are the only one who seems to think so."

Mrs Tyrell snorted. "Well, I am the only one with good taste."

_"At the Nightfort Danny took the oath_

_Thought a boy by all._

_And she hoped to live forever_

_As a Brother upon the Wall."_

Musing that she would rather be doing anything right now than listening to Margaery sing, Brienne fiddled with her dress as she smiled at Mrs Tyrell. "If you could organise the Society_, _what would you have us talk about?"

"Not the Bible," drawled Mrs Tyrell. "Although I am as devout as the next person, I do not think Mrs Baratheon's lengthy sermonising is tremendously interesting for me. I am nearly two and seventy, after all; I might die any minute! Boredom must be resisted at all cost. I would have us talk about new learning, new discoveries... not the same old guff that stuffy men have been debating since before the Break with Rome. It is 1828 for Christ's sake."

Miss Jeyne Poole, who was munching on cake on Brienne's other side, let out a gasp at Mrs Tyrell's casual blasphemy, but Brienne just laughed. "That would be much more interesting," Brienne conceded. "I would love to hear about journeys to Botany Bay, about the search for the source of the Nile, of the recent discoveries of the Royal Society."

_"Now Danny was so diligent_

_To keep from watchful stares_

_But one night as she bathed_

_Her Brothers saw her body bare."_

"It is not just the Royal Society that has the monopoly on all new discoveries," replied Mrs Tyrell.

"No?" asked Brienne. "I want nothing more than to go and see Doctor Samwell Tarly give one of his public dissections. They say he is pushing the bounds of mankind's knowledge of the human body."

"Then why don't you?" asked Mrs Tyrell, her eyebrow raised in curiosity.

Brienne sighed. "Lady Catelyn thinks it is... quite unchristian."

"Lady Catelyn used to have a sense of humour about these things."

"Yes," agreed Brienne, shooting a quick glance at her guardian, who had taken her in when she was orphaned at nine. Lady Catelyn's eyes were closed, and she was listening to Margaery's singing as if she was enjoying the screeching. "But that was before everything happened."

"Before they started calling her Lady Stoneheart you mean?"

Brienne froze. She didn't like talking about what had happened to poor Lady Catelyn. Instead, Brienne changed the subject. "You were saying the Royal Society does not have a monopoly on all new discoveries. To what were you referring?"

Following Brienne's lead in journeying to a different topic, Mrs Tyrell smiled. "Doctor Tarly, although an admirable young fellow, is patronised by the king. He has to pursue things in the _Christian _manner. Others... are not limited by such short-sighted morality."

_"These men were quick to break their vows_

_As they threw her to the ground_

_They took her honour then her life_

_While Danny made not a sound."_

Brienne narrowed her eyes. "Other doctors perform dissections? I thought you had to have a license."

"You do," nodded Mrs Tyrell, "but that's not the most difficult thing. The Royal Society limits access to cadavers. Doctor Tarly gets all the hanged criminals in Edinburgh, as no good Christian wants their corpse dissected after death. Others have to be more cunning in gathering their materials."

A chill ran up Brienne's spine. "You are saying that some doctors acquire bodies... unofficially?"

Mrs Tyrell drew closer, before whispering conspiratorially, "of course. Dr Qyburn, for example, who works out of Cowgate, I hear pays handsomely for a fresh corpse..."

Brienne loved a gruesome story, so let out an awed gasp. "Mrs Tyrell! I cannot believe you know something quite so macabre."

At that, there was a little cough from behind her, and Brienne turned around to see Mrs Roelle looking at her imperiously. "Miss Tarth. Lady Catelyn wishes to speak to you."

Not wanting to stop her conversation with Mrs Tyrell, Brienne tried to object. "But..."

Mrs Roelle looked at Mrs Tyrell, a simpering smile on her face. "Excuse us, Mrs Tyrell, but Lady Catelyn desires her ward's company."

"Of course," said Mrs Tyrell levelly. "We shall speak later, Miss Tarth."

Resigned to her fate, Brienne got to her feet, before giving Mrs Tyrell a quick curtsey. "We shall," Brienne smiled, before turning to Mrs Roelle and letting her lead her across the room.

_"Oh Danny Flint there's no escape_

_The Fate the Gods have written_

_And life does seem the cruellest jape_

_Oh Brave Young Danny Flint."_

Lady Catelyn was like a stone statue when Brienne took the seat next to her. Her eyes were still on Margaery but for the first time Brienne thought she was not looking at her but at something beyond. Something long gone. Trying not to sit too primly, Brienne said, "my lady."

_Once, _thought Brienne, _we were close enough for me to call you Catelyn._

"Miss Tarth," replied Lady Catelyn, not turning her head. "Cassel informs me there is a letter for you in the red room from my daughter."

"Mrs Bolton?" said Brienne stupidly. In a moment, she knew it was the wrong thing to say as Lady Catelyn's eyes were suddenly afire, and her hand was on Brienne's wrist, her fingernails digging in furiously.

"It is not going to be from Arya, is it?" she spat, her heartbreak barely hidden. Brienne tried not to hiss in pain.

_No, _thought Brienne, _she's been missing for far too long._

Realising what she was doing, Lady Catelyn suddenly removed her hand and went back to her blank staring. "You should go and answer the letter."

Brienne glanced at Mrs Tyrell. This seemed like an excuse to stop them talking. "But what about the Society meeting?"

"I am going to send them away after Miss Tyrell finishes singing. I am quite tired."

Quickly flicking her eyes towards the grandfather clock, Brienne said, "but it is only just seven o'clock..."

"I do not care. I wish to retire with my prayer book. The servants will see them out."

Brienne could tell there would be no arguing with Lady Catelyn that afternoon so, getting to her feet, she gave a respectful curtsey before saying, "I shall leave you then, my lady. I will go and write to Mrs Bolton."

Mrs Roelle followed Brienne as she turned from the room, which prevented her from giving Mrs Tyrell a comradely look. As she went, the final verse of _Brave Danny Flint _sounded around Winterfell House's sizeable parlour.

_"It is said Young Danny still yet walks_

_The Nightfort's shadowy halls_

_A pale form singing sorrowfully_

_The loneliest, saddest song."_

* * *

Once Brienne had hold of Sansa's letter, she asked for Mrs Roelle's leave to retire to her chamber. "I wish to get an early night," she confessed, "now the Society Ladies are gone, I can read in peace."

Mrs Roelle nodded, "of course, my child. I will retire too, I think. Lady Catelyn has suggested we visit the Karstark's tomorrow, and I do not wish to be tired."

_Firstly, I am no child, _thought Brienne bitterly. _And secondly, there will be no visiting. Lady Catelyn never leaves Winterfell House._

_Unless it is to see a hanging._

"Of course, Mrs Roelle," Brienne replied, keeping her thoughts to herself. "I shall see you in the morning."

"Goodnight, Brienne."

"Goodnight, Mrs Roelle."

Once Mrs Roelle disappeared around the corner, Brienne retreated into her room and set about taking her dress off along with her corset. She hated being so materially imprisoned every day of her life, a punishment for her womanhood. Just because she had breasts and nothing between her legs, society deemed that she should be trussed up day after day in layers of cotton, silk, and whalebone, and reduced to only having opinions about ladylike things. Once, Brienne had been content with just that destiny, because at least she could play the beautiful lady who would woo a handsome prince, like a princess in a song.

Yet, that wish had never come true. The greatest tragedy of Brienne's life was that while she was punished for being a woman, she could not reap the benefits of being a lady either, because that relied on being pretty and delicate, like Miss Margaery Tyrell. As she was neither of those things, Brienne was barely a woman in the eyes of the gentry, and it made her a laughing stock around town. Although she had just turned twenty, the gossip was that she was far too ugly to ever catch a gentleman's eye at a dance, and what else were ladies good for? It was an unfortunate place for Brienne to find herself trapped, especially when Lady Catelyn expected her to find a husband to escape from penury.

Lying back on her bed, Brienne opened Sansa's letter, instantly recognising the beautiful handwriting of her almost sister. After her father's death, Brienne had been taken as a ward by Lord and Lady Stark and, consequently, found herself raised alongside the Stark siblings; brave Robb, beautiful Sansa, carefree Arya, thoughtful Brandon, and wild Rickon. Like flowers planted in spring the six of them had grown, always seeking the sun. Then winter had come, Lady Catelyn's heart had turned to stone, and Brienne and Sansa were all that was left.

_My dearest Brienne,_

_Although it has not been long since I last wrote, I do so hope you are well. I know the January snows are sometimes tough on your constitution, so I most heartily beseech you not to push yourself too hard in achieving our goals. It will not do for you to be unwell._

_Life here is much the same. To my immense relief, Mr Bolton has had to go to Bath on business, so I have not seen him for the past week. It at least means I can sleep a little easier and can show myself some kindness that he never will. Miss Myranda Royce has paid me to embroider her psalter for her; she chastised herself for being so dreadfully mercantile, but I do not mind. If it means we have a little more money, it cannot hurt._

_I hope whatever plans you have set in motion are turning out to be fruitful. I dream of the hot Indian sun, of a place where it is always warm, and we do not have to feel cold again. It will be most pleasant for dreams to become reality._

_Once more, I hope you are well._

_Yours, Sansa_

After she had read it, Brienne threw it on the fire instantly. It was best that no one caught wind of what they intended to do. The last time Sansa had come to visit her childhood home with her husband, Brienne had noticed unsightly bruises on her neck and wrists, and in other places Sansa tried to hide. Only after much needling on Brienne's part had Sansa tearfully confessed that it was her husband that put them there. Sobbing, Sansa had explained he was a cold, cruel bully who had hid his face well during the courtship.

"I do not know what to do," Sansa had said, crying onto Brienne's shoulder in the bedroom they used to share. "I cannot bear to live with him another day, but how can I escape without putting poison in his tea and being hanged for murder?"

"We will find a way," Brienne had soothed her. "Don't you worry."

Over the course of a few months, the two women had made their plan; they would escape to India. On the other side of the world, no one would care that Mrs Bolton was not really a widow, or that Miss Brienne Tarth had run away from home. In India, they could set themselves up as governesses, teaching the children of the officers of the East India Company. For Sansa, it would give her freedom from her husband. For Brienne, it meant she could take off the corset of her life in Winterfell House, where she was always being told she was not quite good enough.

All they needed was money for two fares, which was turning out to be somewhat of a problem. Young ladies did not have access to ready cash. In her desperation to save Sansa, Brienne had even gone to the bank herself and attempted to inquire about the fortune left to her by her father, only to discover that it had long gone in paying debts. Sansa had very little money and, although she was her mother's heir considering all her siblings were dead, she could never get access to her own fortune. As Mrs Bolton, she was held under the law of coverture, meaning everything she inherited would instantly become her abusive husband's. Under the rules of men, there would be no escape.

That was why Brienne was turning to unorthodox means to get what they needed. Once she had burnt Sansa's letter, Brienne fumbled with the loose floorboard next to her bed. Underneath, she had both her small purse of money and the clothes she would need. Dressing quickly, she put on her shirt, breeches, coat, shoes, and hat, tying her hair up and tucking it away so no one would suspect she was a woman. Striding over to her mirror, she smiled to herself, for once in her life glad she was ugly, tall, and mannish.

_Well, Mr Danny Flint, _she thought. _It is time to go and earn your keep._

At nine o'clock, as expected, she heard the crack of a pebble being thrown against the window. She knew it was Pod. When first putting the wheels of her plan into motion, Brienne had recruited the young street urchin to do tasks for her; hiring horses, finding where it was possible to gamble, knowing places where it was so dark that no one would suspect Mr Daniel Flint was in fact Miss Brienne Tarth. It also meant she did not have to rely on Winterfell House's servants, who would no doubt report back to Mrs Roelle or even Lady Catelyn herself.

When she opened the window, Pod smiled at her. "Mr Flint. I have our horses."

"Good," she grinned. "Where to tonight?"

"_The Sellsword, _of course. There's an important fight on; earnings could be huge."

Brienne raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "Oh. Who?"

"The Hound versus the Kingslayer," he replied. "The Hound is the underdog so you could win a fortune if you bet on him. The Kingslayer is the favourite and so a prize is almost guaranteed... and the man has no honour, so he may resort to dirty tactics."

She could not help but grin at the prospect. For the last three months she had been travelling round Edinburgh attending all the bare-knuckle boxing bouts. She had studied every fighter, learnt their every move, and thought she could quickly win a fortune by placing bets carefully.

_Do not worry Sansa, _she thought. _I'll have the money to get us to India soon._

"Right," said Brienne. "Best we get moving then. Are all the lights off in the rest of the house?"

Pod nodded. "I even looked in the window of the servant's quarters. Everyone is asleep."

"We are a God-fearing family," smirked Brienne. "Heaven forbid anyone stays up this late and has a little fun."

Slinging her leg out of the window, she carefully positioned herself so she could reach across to the adjacent trellis. Even though it was covered in ivy, Brienne had discovered a way to grip hold and shimmy down to the courtyard below, all without anyone noticing a disturbance.

_Ha! _Brienne thought. _I may be large and hulking, but I can be graceful sometimes._

"Are you ready, Mr Flint?" asked Pod, holding the reins of one of the horses out to her.

"As ready as I will ever be," she replied.

When she mounted the horse, Brienne could see from Pod's expression that he was expecting her to be nervous, but that could not be further from the truth.

In fact Brienne was excited because, as Mr Daniel Flint, she felt free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you liked it (or if you didn't) please leave comments and kudos, because I love to know how I am doing.
> 
> Next time... Mr Daniel Flint goes to see a bare-knuckle fight...
> 
> PS. The lyrics to "Brave Danny Flint" are taken from "A Dance with Dragons" by GRRM.


	2. Brienne II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne goes to watch the bare-knuckle boxing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I hope you enjoy this chapter. As ever, I lluuurrrvvvee comments and kudos!

_The Sellsword _was outside Edinburgh's city walls a long way from the austere familiarity of Winterfell House. It was a good thing, because Brienne thought she could remain unrecognised. When they arrived at the homely pub, Pod gave his mistress a respectful nod and said he would go and put the horses in the stable.

"Good idea," she said. "I will go inside and find Hunt. I want to make sure the bets are sorted."

Once she parted from Pod, Brienne entered the pub itself rather than the garden, as outside the staff and punters were already gearing up for the fight. She thought it was not wise to appear there too early in case she gets accused of match fixing. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of alcohol, sweat, and damp, but Brienne did not mind. It felt real in comparison to the cold, lifeless house she had just come from. It took some time for Brienne to get to the bar and by the time she was there, Pod was back with her, telling her all about the horses, the stable conditions, and the excess of hay.

It was as if he wanted to play Brave Danny Flint's squire.

"Pod," she smiled, feeling affectionate towards her loyal street urchin, "do you want a pint?"

His eyes lit up. "Yes, sir, but only if you think I can still do my work and drink."

"One won't hurt," she replied, slapping him on the back, like a proper blokey-bloke would.

_I am a man, _she reminded herself. _Mr Daniel Flint._

When they got to the front of the queue, they were confronted by the landlady, Mrs Masha Heddle. "Ah, Mr Flint! Are you here to observe the fight?"

"Not this time," said Brienne, deepening her voice to sound like a proper man. "I am here to bet. Where's Mr Hunt?"

"Out in the garden by the ring," replied Mrs Heddle. "I'm sure he will be happy to take your money. Do you want a drink first?"

"That would be most kind," said Brienne. When Mrs Heddle gave her a funny look, Brienne realised she was perhaps sounding a little posh to be a genuine patron of _The Sellsword_, so decided to coarsen her tone. "Two pints of bitter for me and my trusty squire." Pod grinned, all grubby-faced urchin, which seemed to console the landlady as she went to pour their drinks. Brienne knew she was a little distrustful of posh knobs. When Masha returned with the beers, Pod nearly drank half of his in one gulp.

"Pod!" chastised Brienne, "I said one drink won't hurt, but not if you drink it like water." Her squire just grinned at that. Although he was loyal, in some ways he was difficult to tame.

Once they had their beers in their hands, Brienne and Pod made their way outside. Someone had used a couple of lengths of rope to cordon off an area for the match to take place, and the walls of the garden were decorated with posters advertising the fight.

_Sandor "The Hound" Clegane _

_Versus _

_Jaime "The Kingslayer" Lannister_

_Saturday 19th January 1828_

_The Sellsword_

Brienne had been attending the prize fights in disguise for several months now and consequently knew every fighter on the circuit. She had studied their moves, their strengths and weaknesses, and even their temperaments. Her knowledge meant that she felt supremely confident she knew who to bet on in any given fight. The Hound versus the Kingslayer would be an interesting bout, as both men were as opposite as it was possible to be. Clegane was a solid mountain of muscle and sinew, with a burnt face and a terrifying demeanour, but Brienne could see he had his weaknesses, relying too much on brute strength and was prone to being caught off balance. He also struggled to keep control of his temper, so if an opponent could successfully wind him up, he would lose concentration. In contrast, the Kingslayer fought like he was dancing. Although he could not match Clegane for sheer strength, when she had watched Lannister fight, Brienne could see the brain whirring behind those bright green eyes of his. A strategist, he saw his opponent's steps before he made them and was not easily riled. For that reason, when pitting the Hound versus the Kingslayer, Brienne's money was on Jaime Lannister.

The bookmaker, Mr Hyle Hunt, was standing to one side of the ring, furiously writing things down in his little accounts book. Mr Hunt was an easy sort of character, with brown hair and brown eyes, and so plain looking as to be almost indistinguishable from the next man. In the seedy underbelly of Edinburgh, Brienne assumed that was a useful attribute. He smiled when she approached.

"Are you Mr Hunt, the bookmaker?" asked Brienne, extending her hand towards him. She was wearing gloves, so as to hide the womanly softness. "I am Mr Daniel Flint and wish to bet on the match."

Taking her hand, Mr Hunt squinted at her as if scrutinising her properly. A knot of fear tied itself in Brienne's belly. She knew the bookie might easily con her out of her winnings if he suspected she was a woman, so Brienne tried to keep her handshake as firm as possible. Once again thankful for her natural ugliness, Brienne relaxed when Mr Hunt smiled at her. "Ah yes, I recognise you, Mr Flint. You've been watching the matches for the last few months, haven't you? Why? Are you interested in becoming a boxer yourself? Or just betting?"

Brienne blushed at his words. "I am not built for boxing."

Mr Hunt laughed. "Why not? You are taller than most, you have long limbs which will give you a good range. Why not use the gifts God gave you in the ring? It pays well."

Brienne was genuinely surprised by that statement. "Does it?"

"Ten pounds a bout for most fighters, more if you are a star."

A fantasy began to bloom in Brienne's mind; Mr Daniel Flint could be a prize fighter, with his long limbs and imposing height. He could be strong like the Hound and quick like the Kingslayer, and take them both out with one well-placed punch. With his winnings, he could find the money to get Sansa away from her horrible husband... he could...

_Oh, _Brienne thought. _But I'm not Mr Daniel Flint. I am Miss Brienne Tarth._

Wanting to end Mr Hunt's line of inquiry quickly, Brienne changed the subject back to money. "I wish to place a bet on the bout."

Mr Hunt got his pen out. "On who?"

"What are the odds?"

"20/1 on the Hound, 5/1 on the Kingslayer."

Brienne was momentarily tempted by the large prize that could be won by betting on Clegane but, knowing she had limited resources to work with, decided she would start by being careful with her money.

"Three shillings on the Kingslayer," she said. If she won, she would get fifteen shillings. It was nice, but a pittance in comparison to what a real boxer could earn.

Sensing something in her expression, Mr Hunt smiled at her again, smelling opportunity. "I'll write that down just here and once you've given me your money, we shall part for the fight. Come back at the end if you are entitled to winnings, or if you are interested in entering the ring yourself. I can find you a teacher."

"Thank you, sir," said Brienne, considering his offer, "I will bear that in mind."

After she handed over her money to Mr Hunt, Brienne and Pod went to find a suitable place to watch the fight, eventually settling on a secluded corner under some trees which had a clear view of the ring. Brienne was thankful they had chosen such a scenic spot as, in the end, they had to wait some time for the fight to start and, in her impatience, she found herself drinking her beer almost as quickly as Pod. Eventually, after at least half an hour, the announcer Hugh Vale came into the ring, a bright smile on his face.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he beamed, "welcome to _The Sellsword _Bare-Knuckle Boxing Prize Fight!" A cheer went up from the crowd at that statement. "Tonight, we have a very special treat for you. Two fighters famed throughout the land for their fighting prowess. First, for your delectation, our esteemed guest; a dog with bared teeth in human form... SANDOR "THE HOUND" CLEGANE!"

There was a roar of approval as the largest man Brienne had ever seen made his way into the ring. As ever, his expression contained storms, and he did not bother playing to the crowd; there was no attempt at raising extra support, or even giving the audience a smile. His power lay in the threat that he was just like his name; a rabid dog, only just being leashed by civilised society.

"And next. The name elicits a dark glamour, power, and mystique. It sends a chill up the spine. It makes ladies swoon. Our second fighter tonight... JAIME "THE KINGSLAYER" LANNISTER."

If the Hound was the largest man Brienne had ever seen, the Kingslayer was the most beautiful. Jaime Lannister had his shining golden curls styled into a long Bedford crop, and as bare-knuckle boxers fought topless, Brienne saw that the colour was replicated on his chest. It was as if he had been carved by a classical sculptor, he was all well-formed lines, from his arms to his chest to his legs. In spite of herself, Brienne's throat went a little dry when she looked at him, his green eyes shining.

It was just a shame he was such a despicable shit.

"Now," began Hugh Vale, "as per London Prize Ring Rules, both fighters are accompanied by a second and both must tie their colours to _The Sellsword's _stake. The victor is entitled to his opponent’s colours as a souvenir of his win. Both men have already been stripped and searched for improper weapons and both combatants are deemed fit for combat." Hugh then walked to the centre of the ring, drawing a line in the mud with a stick. Recognising the scratch line, the two men stood either side of it. The Kingslayer smiled, all sunshine. The Hound just looked angry.

"Shake hands, gentlemen," insisted Hugh Vale. The shake happened without complaint, before the two men went and tied their colours to the stake; Lannister's were bright red, while Clegane's were yellow. As they came back to the line, both fighters adopted the orthodox stance, left foot forward.

_Both right handed, _Brienne thought.

Hugh Vale then withdrew a watch from his pocket. "Ladies and Gentlemen, prepare to watch the fight of the year! Get ready. Three, two, one. Fight!"

Then the boxing began. The Hound took advantage of his height instantly, swinging his arm up in an attempted overhand punch, trying to bring his weight down on the Kingslayer's head. Mr Lannister had no time for such tactics, though. To counter the Hound, he ducked and dived, moving through the air like a swan gliding across a lake. Brienne could not help but note his inherent grace. Wrongfooted, the Hound stumbled, giving the Kingslayer time and space to tap several jabs to his jaw. Even this far back, Brienne could hear the Hound's irritated growl.

The first round continued much the same; the Hound would make a statement punch, before the Kingslayer would perform a dance move and slip away before placing a couple of careful hits on his opponent. As the fight wore on, Brienne could see that the Hound was growing angrier and angrier.

_It is only a matter of time, _thought Brienne, _before he snaps._

It came after ten minutes, when an enraged Hound tried a powerful hook which took him off balance when the Kingslayer flitted away, suddenly as insubstantial as a will-o-the-wisp. Staggering, the Hound was totally wrongfooted when the Kingslayer countered his move with a highly accurate, powerful uppercut that seemed to come out of nowhere. Taken off guard, it knocked the Hound to the ground.

"The Hound is down!" announced Hugh Vale, "and now he has ten seconds to come to scratch and make it to the scratch line, or the Kingslayer is the winner."

Not wanting to be taken down so easily, the Hound was back in five. For the second round, it was clear he had learnt his lesson and so held back, letting the Kingslayer dance around him. Brienne almost thought the sight was funny; watching the Hound and the Kingslayer fight was like comparing herself to Miss Margaery Tyrell at a ball. Brienne's moves were solid, clunky, but strangely functional, while Miss Tyrell's were elegant, graceful, but sometimes ornamental. Watching the fight, Brienne noticed that the Kingslayer shared Margaery's flaw; a desire to be beautiful in battle meant he did not always go for the kill. Therefore, when the Hound managed to land a punch on him, the Kingslayer's elegant dancing did not save him from falling to the ground, only coming to scratch in seven seconds. Round three went to the Hound too, but the Kingslayer managed to get back to the scratch line in time but sporting a nasty cut on his lip. However, by round four the Hound was beginning to tire, so the Kingslayer was able to knock him down. He got up with only one second to spare.

The winner was decided in round five. Tired and once again angry, the Hound was putting all his effort into a serious of wild attacks - hook, lunge, uppercut, overhand - but the Kingslayer always managed to slip out of the way. It meant that eventually, just like in round one, the Hound left himself open and the Kingslayer ended it with one deadly accurate uppercut. With the Hound out cold on the floor, there was no doubt who was the victor.

"Your winner... The Kingslayer!" yelled Hugh Vale, climbing into the ring in order to grab Mr Lannister's hand and raise it in the air. As the crowd cheered, the Kingslayer gave them all a dazzling smile, that Brienne thought must persuade all the barmaids but no one else.

_He may be beautiful and a good fighter, but he has no honour... not after what he did._

Yet, even though she despised him as the worst kind of lowlife who occupied Edinburgh's darkside, Brienne watched as the Kingslayer took the Hound's colours from the stake and helped his fallen opponent to his feet. It would be rude not to; he had won Mr Danny Flint fifteen shillings after all.

"Come Pod," said Brienne when the two fighters had left the ring, "let's go and find Mr Hunt. He owes me some money."

* * *

After the fight was over, Brienne queued with the other winners for the bookmaker’s attention and when she reached the front, he duly paid her the winnings; fifteen whole shillings. Brienne could have danced with joy.

_The first step, Sansa, _she thought. _The first step to freedom._

"Did you think any more on my offer, Mr Flint?" asked Mr Hunt.

In truth, she had. She was curious. "Would you get me a teacher?"

"Yes," Mr Hunt smiled, dolling out more winnings to another customer. "The one I have in mind charges two shillings an hour, but the investment would be more than recouped once you got in the ring."

Brienne furrowed her brow, "what is in it for you?"

"A greater range of fighters for my clientele," he answered honestly. "The punters would love to see a man like you box."

_A man like me, _Brienne thought a little sadly. Although it was very convenient to be able to so easily disguise herself as Mr Daniel Flint, in truth the little girl in her was sad that her femininity was so easily rubbed away in the eyes of unseeing men.

"I will try one lesson," she said, "to see whether I am fit for it."

Mr Hunt smiled. "Good. Can you meet me here a week today? Five o'clock?"

"Make it nine o'clock and you have yourself a deal," she replied. There was no way she was going to be able to escape Lady Catelyn and Mrs Roelle any earlier.

"Wonderful, sir. I will see you then."

At that, Brienne pocketed her earnings and led Pod away from the ringside. It was getting late, and it would do well to be back at Winterfell House before midnight. However, Pod wanted to say goodnight to a young barmaid he was friendly with, so Brienne found herself lingering a little longer than she wished. She spoke to Mrs Heddle, who asked her what Mr Daniel Flint did for a living. Brienne claimed he was a hawker - something uninteresting and commonplace - so she did not ask too many questions. She then briefly spoke to the Hound, thanking him for a good fight.

"Thank you, _sir_," Sandor Clegane replied through gritted teeth, clearly bitter at his loss.

Knowing she did not want to be stuck in a conversation with the grumpy Hound for too long, Brienne went to tell Pod at the bar that she was going to saddle the horses and that he had fifteen minutes. Once she had her squire's agreement, Brienne walked to the stables, deep in thought.

_Ten pounds for prize fighters, _she thought. _We would have the money we need in no time, Sansa._

There were problems with the idea, however. Bare-knuckle boxers tended to accumulate bruises almost as quick as they did cash, so if she did train and eventually fight in the ring, Mrs Roelle or Lady Catelyn would surely notice and get suspicious. And then, of course, there was the fact she was a woman. Although Brienne was aware that there were female bare-knuckle boxers - the trash-talking Cockney Championess Elizabeth Wilkinson being the most famous of all - they earned a pittance in comparison to their male counterparts.

_If I want to get the money, I will have to fight as Mr Daniel Flint. I will have to fight as a man, _Brienne thought. _Can I really do that?_

She was so deep in thought that once she got into the stable, Brienne walked straight into a man in a dark coat who was saddling up his own horse. Although he was smaller than her, there was a wired strength to him that meant when they crashed together, it was her that nearly fell over, not him.

"My apologies," she said absent-mindedly, steadying herself, wanting to move past him and this social blunder as quickly as possible.

"That is quite alright, my lady."

It took her a couple of paces to realise what he had just said: _my lady. _In such a simple, off-the-cuff comment, he had reduced Mr Daniel Flint to nothing. Terror seizing her at the thought that someone had rumbled her disguise, Brienne turned to look at him. In a moment she recognised the Kingslayer.

_Strange that he does not think me a man, when in this light he is almost beautiful enough to be a member of the fairer sex._

Trying to compose herself, Brienne straightened her back so she could loom over him, tapping into all the well-taught aristocratic fury she could muster. "I am no woman," she spat. "I am Mr Daniel Flint of Friar's Wynd."

A mocking smirk danced across his pretty face. "If you say so."

"I _do _say so," she glowered. "I am as much a man as you are."

It was an audacious move, but Brienne thought that if she could be furious enough about it he would drop the subject. To her consternation, however, the Kingslayer just continued to smirk that sickening, arrogant grin at her.

"Let me put this another way, _Mr Daniel Flint of Friar's Wynd_," the Kingslayer smiled, climbing astride his horse. "You are a girl. And you're a girl with as much talent for disguise as a giraffe in dark glasses trying to get into a 'Polar Bears Only' golf club!"

Brienne was not sure whether he was trying to make her laugh or enrage her, but she assumed the latter because he was _the Kingslayer_, and the rumours she had heard about him meant that he must be a hateful, despicable man.

"How dare you!" she thundered, but he just chuckled. It was the kind of laugh that belonged to a carefree boy.

"I would love to stay and chat," he crooned, turning his horse around to face the exit, "but I fear you would punch me if I do and I have had enough of fighting for one night. Therefore, I bid you adieu, Brave Danny Flint."

And without another word, he galloped off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a couple of things with this one.
> 
> Firstly, I researched the rules of bare-knuckle boxing and discovered they were not standardised until the 1830s. Therefore, I took a few liberties with them, but the basic rules are still there.
> 
> Secondly, Elizabeth Wilkinson WAS a real bare-knuckle boxer, but she lived in eighteenth century London, a full one-hundred years before when this fic is set. That being said, she seemed so kickass when I read about her I had to include her.
> 
> Finally, Jaime's line about the "Polar Bears Only Golf Club" is stolen from Blackadder Goes Forth, but it was so perfect I couldn't resist.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed that. If you did (or if you didn't) please consider leaving comments and kudos!
> 
> Next chapter... Brienne gets a boxing tutor...


	3. Jaime I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne meets her new boxing tutor...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Welcome back! There's a bit of JB bickering in this one, so if you are enjoying this story, please think about leaving a comment or kudos :)

When Jaime returned home, he was relieved to discover the house was empty. He decided that was a good thing, because he did not know if he could cope with the alternative. If Cersei was in the house, she would be covered in bruises - from her pimp or a john she would never tell him - and drunk as anything. Tyrion would be wasted too; he spent his days employed at a local freak show with another dwarf girl named Penny, riding pigs. He (rightfully) complained it was beneath his dignity, but everyone had to eat. Consequently, in the evenings, Jaime would often finds Cersei and Tyrion together, drinking, even though they hated one another.

_The Whore, the Monster, and the Kingslayer. What a trio we make, _Jaime thought darkly.

Jaime did not linger in the house, but instead went into the tiny garden at the back of the building. Picking up a shovel, he dug a hole in the earth where he knew the box was kept. After a few minutes of digging he found it and swiftly put his earnings inside.

_We will get to America, _he told himself. _But I will not let Cersei and Tyrion drink away our chances._

Once it was safely buried again, Jaime turned back towards the house. Nearing the door, he heard a cackle of laughter.

_Cersei, _he thought.

When he went inside, Jamie saw that his sweet sister was not alone. The man with her was tall but, instead of being a figure of health, was gaunt and pale looking. He had a stupid little goatee and dark greasy hair that made him look highly unsavoury. All in all, Jaime thought it was highly appropriate for a man with such a black heart.

"Mr Lannister," the man lisped. "Your sister told me you were out boxing."

Jaime gave Mr Vargo Hoat a tight smile. "I was, but I'm back now."

"As I can see," Mr Hoat smirked, one hand still on Cersei's waist.

"Why are you here?" Jaime sighed. He did not have the energy for verbal sparring with Mr Hoat; the fight with the Hound had taken more out of him that he let on, and he wanted to go and apply a poultice to a particularly nasty bruise his opponent had inflicted on his ribs.

"For payment," said Mr Hoat grinned. "The Brave Companions _look after _all the houses in this neighbourhood... for a price. We would hate for something to happen if you are unable to keep up."

Jaime felt bitter to his stomach. After Aerys, he had told himself that he would never be drawn into paying protection money again. With everything that had happened between himself and his former boxing master, Jaime had thought the neighbourhood would have been rid of parasitical gangs forever. Instead, the Targaryens had just been replaced by the Brave Companions and the cycle had started again. Knowing there was no point in fighting - especially since Vargo had his hand around Cersei's waist - Jaime walked over to the cabinet where they kept their official savings and pulled out the blood money.

"Good man," said Mr Hoat handed over the coins, his teeth like knives. Jaime felt a breath of relief when that ugly goat finally let go of his sister. "Your house will remain well looked after... for now."

"What does it need protecting from?" Jaime asked, his voice tinged with anger because he already knew the answer.

Mr Hoat's eyes glistened. "The night is dark and full of terrors, Mr Lannister. Surely you know that? Good evening."

With a tip of his hat, Vargo Hoat turned and made to leave the house. Jaime did not stop him; it did not do well to have shades inside his home. Once the man was gone, Jaime turned to Cersei who was busily pouring herself a glass of wine. She had a new bruise on her cheek. Unable to stop himself, Jaime walked forward and dusted his fingers across it. Cersei just smiled.

"Got that one from an Earl," she said, as if she were proud of it. "He's talking about taking me to London and making me his kept woman; he likes how _fiesty _I am. Anything is better than this shithole."

"Cersei," Jaime said tenderly, not liking this line of argument, "you don't have to live like this."

She just looked confused. "Live like what? It's much better than being some boring married woman, shackled to my husband. The Earl of Cawdor seems quite interested. If he took me to London, I could become a society courtesan. I could have fine dresses and clothes. I could have the ear of all the important men in the kingdom. _Genuine power_."

Her green eyes were glazed over in her drunken dreaming, so Jaime put both hands on her face to recapture her attention. "Wouldn't it be better if we got out of here? You, me, and Tyrion? A new life in America? Isn't that better than being a well-paid whore?"

Cersei scoffed. "No. It worked for Lady Hamilton, why can't it work for me?"

Jaime did not have an answer to that, so he withdrew from her and took off his coat, trying not to wince when he caught a bruise on his arm. He was tired of fighting and, now he was home, he wanted nothing more than warmth and safety.

Instead, he just felt cold.

"Cersei," he said, "I'm going to bed. I'm tired after my fight."

Seemingly just remembering that was where he had been, Cersei asked, "did you win?"

"Yes."

"Good."

There were no more questions. There were never any more questions. It was always always for him to do the emotional heavy lifting.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

* * *

For the next week, Jaime just did the job that kept them afloat when he was not prize fighting; carting. He worked as a carter for a local cooper, an honest, good man by the name of Barristan Selmy. Mr Selmy had been the only man who had agreed to keep him in employment after the Aerys debacle, and Jaime was immensely thankful. In a strange way, Jaime also enjoyed the role, because it allowed him to ride around town uninterrupted, his thoughts to himself. As a carter, it was his job to take Selmy's freshly made barrels to all the brewers in the local area, where they would feel them up with beer before selling them on to pubs and inns. Given the rate of drinking, Jaime sometimes had to hold some barrels back just until the price was right. It meant money sometimes flowed in unsteadily, because although he charged for the use of his cart, he earned extra by skimming a small cut off the top of every barrel sold. The realities of supply and demand often meant that Jaime often decided to make money in other ways.

So, when Mr Hyle Hunt had approached him suggesting he train a promising young boxer, Jaime had been intrigued.

_What is an hour on a Saturday evening in exchange for two shillings?_

Consequently, the following Saturday, Jaime found himself waiting in the garden of _The Sellsword _for Mr Hunt, pulling his coat tightly around him to keep off the January chill.

"Ah! Mr Lannister!" came Mr Hunt's voice.

Jaime turned around to see the bookmaker striding towards him, a broad grin on his face, with who Jaime assumed to be the promising young fighter. It took him a moment to recognise him, but when he did, he almost laughed.

_My, my, my, it's Brave Danny Flint!_

Her eyes went large and disbelieving when she saw him. "Mr Hunt," she stammered, "I didn't know you meant to suggest _the Kingslayer _as my tutor?"

_Ah, _thought Jaime. _She is one of those who wishes to call me by my dishonourable nickname rather than my actual name._

Mr Hunt furrowed his brow. "He is one of the best in the game, Mr Flint, _and _he is willing to teach you."

"Mr Flint?" said Jaime, raising his eyebrow. "Surely you mean..."

"I'll accept," snapped Brave Danny Flint, not wanting to spill her secret to the blind Mr Hunt. "Do you have somewhere suitable to train? It is bitterly cold out here."

Jaime found it quite funny, all things considered. It was as if everyone else was blind. To him, it was totally obvious she was a woman. Although she had long legs, longer than him, her sturdy shapely calves and tapering ankles were clearly those of a lady. Her features were all strong lines, granted, but there was also a softness there if one really looked. And Jaime highly doubted if the gods would permit a man to have eyes so beautiful. They were certainly a woman's eyes.

Mr Hunt nodded. "Yes. Mrs Heddle has kindly permitted you use of her cellar for an hour, if that would suit."

"Of course," grinned Jaime, not taking his eyes off Brave Danny Flint. "Come, Mr Flint. Are you ready for a fight?"

She narrowed her eyes at him in a way that made the back of his neck prickle with anticipation. "Whenever you are, Kingslayer."

* * *

Mr Hunt left them along in gloom of Mrs Heddle's cellar with only a lantern for company. Brave Danny Flint's eyes seemed very bright, given the lack of light. Preparing to fight, Jaime began to disrobe, taking off his hat, coat, waistcoat, and shirt, just as was expected for boxing. Brave Danny Flint blanched.

"Why are you taking your clothes off?" she hissed, clearly scandalised.

He laughed. For a cross-dresser, she seemed easily startled. "It's the first rule of bare-knuckle fighting. It means we don't get any blood on our shirts if someone breaks their nose. It's all good etiquette. Why don't you take yours off?"

She went even paler, "I... I... I..."

It was too good an opportunity. "Are you scared, Miss Flint, that I'll see your teats?"

Her cheeks changed rapidly from deathly pale to rosy red. He liked that he could inspire such emotion in her. "I am _not _a woman!"

"No? What are you then? A lady? A girl? A lass?" As her expression grew angrier, he found the word he was looking for. "Oh no, I know what you are. You are a _wench._"

If Brave Danny Flint ever had any ladylike manners, she lost them in a moment. "I am not a wench!" she exclaimed, close to a shout. "I am a man. My name is Mr Daniel Flint of Friar's Wynd. I am paying you to teach me to box, so I would appreciate it if you called me Mr Flint. Not my lady. Not a lass. And definitely not wench!"

He shrugged, seemingly acquiescing to her demand. "As you say, my good sir. Why not take your shirt off then? What's the harm? It's what all good boxers do."

Recognising he had her cornered, Brave Danny Flint moved across the room towards a keg of beer, taking her hat and coat off and putting them on top. Looking defiant, she did not remove her shirt.

"I am not taking it off," she said forcefully.

"No?" he teased. "Don't worry. I'm not interested in whatever meagre goods you have got under there. I won't mind."

Even though she was red-faced again, it was clear she was not going to take the bait, so she said, "will you show me how to box or not?"

Smiling at her, he said, "of course. This is what you paid me for." Getting into position, he put his left foot before his right and drew his hands up in front of his face. "First things first. The orthodox stance."

She snorted. "I have been watching you box long enough to know what the orthodox stance is," she said, copying him so she stood in the correct, if somewhat stiff and upright, position.

It was now his turn to flush at the thought she had been watching him. "Oh. Did you see anything you like?"

That was one step too far and she went to punch him, all brutal force and Clegane-like strength. Jaime slipped away easily, moving around her as if she were his incredibly untalented dance partner. When she managed to steady herself, he turned to face her, as if they were both going to partake in a quadrille.

"You grimace before you punch," Jaime informed her. "It gives the game away."

Brave Danny Flint scowled. "You move too quickly, _Kingslayer."_

The use of his hate nicknamed vexed him slightly, so he said, "Jaime. My name is Jaime. And I do not move too quickly, wench, you are just too thick to anticipate what is coming next."

He tapped a delicate hit on her stomach to prove his point. Even as he tried to give her a winning smile to show her it was only a little joke, it only made her even more grumpy.

"I am not too thick!" she spat.

"If you say so," he said, deciding perhaps she was not in possession of a sense of humour. That statement made her close to snapping, but before Brave Danny Flint could respond, he interrupted her. "If you wish to show me the level of your intelligence, maybe it is wise that you listen to someone who you are paying to teach you how to box."

Once again, she tried to verbally parry him, but then, realising she would only be showing her supposed thickness, she bit her lip. Begrudgingly, she said, "alright. Teach me how to box."

So Jaime did. Over the next forty-five minutes he taught her how to form the orthodox stance, brushing her shoulders with his hands and nudging her knees with his own to make sure she was as relaxed as possible. He showed her how to centre her weight so, even though she was strong and powerfully built, she would not be knocked off balance by a well thought out punch.

"This all seems highly dishonourable," she said, scandalised, when he attempted to tell her that some boxers favoured spiked boots to keep them firmly on the ground. "But what more should I expect from the Kingslayer, I suppose?"

"Jaime," he corrected, a little insulted. "And there is nothing dishonourable in being prepared. Often, preparation and forethought win a fight, not who can punch the hardest."

Knowing he was not going to persuade her on the virtues of _thinking_ on her first lesson, Jaime decided to show her some boxing holds that could be used to distract and disengage a tireless opponent. One of the ones he showed her was a headlock and he carefully demonstrated it to her by wrapping his arm round her neck and holding her against his side.

"This way, you can delay and tire someone without wasting your own energy or damaging your hands unnecessarily," he said. "Why don't you try it on me?"

Once he let her go, she could see her face was very flushed. "Alright, Kingslayer. I will."

"Jaime," he replied, wearily.

For some reason, in spite of his extensive instruction, it seemed that Brave Danny Flint had not been listening at all, because when she drew him into a headlock, she did not keep him down at her hip. The odd angle she held him at meant she pressed him close against her chest, and he instantly felt the swell of her (admittedly small) breasts again him.

"My, my, Mr Flint," he said into her shirt. "You are remarkably voluptuous for a man."

She shoved him away as if he had burnt her. "Shut up, Kingslayer."

Enjoying her anger, he smiled. "I told you, my name is Jaime. What is yours? And don't say _Mr Daniel Flint, _because I know it is a lie. What is your real name, I mean, the one that signals you are a lady?"

To his surprise, Brave Danny Flint did not give him an immediate answer, but instead launched herself at him, trying to take him in the headlock hold he had shown her to shut him up. Not quite anticipating it, Jaime stepped back, only to find that Brave Danny Flint had missed her footing and she crashed into him. They both went tumbling to the ground under the force of her weight. She did not miss a trick, though. If one thing he had taught her had stuck, it was that a good fighter had to take advantage of a winning situation. Having landed on top of him, Brave Danny Flint straddled him with her thick, powerful thighs, before grabbing his wrists in her hands and pinning him them above his head. The position meant her face was inches from his, meaning he had to look into her angry eyes.

"My name is _Mr Daniel Flint_!" she shouted, her breath coming heavy spurts. "And if this arrangement is to continue, it is high time you called me that!"

Brave Danny Flint's eyes were afire as she stared down at him, all righteous anger and a holier-than-thou attitude. In that moment, pinned beneath her, for all her pluckiness and bravery, Jaime could tell what he had said had genuinely hurt her. It confused him. Why would a woman be upset for being called a lady? Wanting to get back on better terms with her, he relaxed, taking all the tension out of his body. His hips briefly rocked beneath hers as he repositioned himself. It alerted her to the fact that she had him in an extremely vulnerable position.

"I'm sorry, Mr Flint," Jaime said sincerely, noticing her sudden discomfort. "It's just I've never seen a man with such pretty eyes before."

Brave Danny Flint had no time to answer him in any other way than her spectacular blush, because at that moment the door of the cellar swung open. Wide-eyed and panicked, Mrs Heddle appeared, not even seeming to notice what a strange position the Kingslayer and his Wench were in. In fact, the landlady was not conscious of anything at all because she looked positively terrified.

"Mr Lannister, Mr Flint. Please come with me! I need your help!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that! If you liked it, please leave a comment! I love to know what you think of my writing!
> 
> A note. The "Lady Hamilton" Cersei refers to is Emma, Lady Hamilton (1765-1815). She was the mistress of Lord Nelson of Trafalgar fame, working her way up from being the daughter of a blacksmith through somewhat dubious means. If you are interested, she had an amazing life, so look her up!
> 
> Next chapter... Jaime and Brienne go to help Mrs Heddle...


	4. Brienne III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Jaime go to help Mrs Heddle...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming back! If you are enjoying this story, please consider leaving comments and kudos. They let me know how I'm doing, and make me a better writer :)

Brienne did not know who she had been expecting as a boxing tutor, but it was not the Kingslayer; perhaps someone scowling and angry like the Hound, or smiling but ultimately plain looking like Mr Hunt. Yet, even though those two men were skilled, the Kingslayer was more terrifying than either could ever be. Working out her weaknesses, the Kingslayer poked and needled and prodded, insisting she was a woman. He made jokes at her expense and goaded her into taking her shirt off, all the while teaching her how to box.

And now he was beneath her, tensed and still fighting, a bead of sweat trickling down his chest, carving a path through his golden chest hair, he was scarier than ever. Although she hated to admit it, the Kingslayer was infuriatingly beautiful. With his shining hair and green eyes, he looked like a fallen angel. A Lucifer. Distrusting him and his intentions, Brienne, caught his wrists in her hands and held them above his head, knowing that he would take advantage of the situation at any moment. All she could hear was his heavy breathing as she gazed into his eyes. She tried to keep her composure, but she was just too agitated.

"My name is _Mr Daniel Flint! _And if this arrangement is to continue, it is high time you called me that!" she shouted.

At her words, something changed. His body softened, languid and relaxed, between her thighs and his groin momentarily brushed hers as he moved. Suddenly, she was on fire, blushing like anything. Terrified that he would unmask her more than he already had, her heart was hammering in her chest as he spoke.

"I'm sorry, Mr Flint," he said, his traitorous tongue momentarily flicking across his bottom lip. "It's just I've never seen a man with such pretty eyes before."

It would have hurt less if he had punched her. But what had she expected from the Kingslayer? Kindness? Compassion? No. He would only give her cruelty, like most incredibly attractive, dastardly men. Preparing to give him a right royal tongue lashing, she went to say something, but then the door swung open. It was Mrs Heddle, whey-faced and panicked.

"Mr Lannister, Mr Flint. Please come with me! I need your help!"

Turning back to the Kingslayer, she was suddenly aware of how utterly preposterous they looked; her trapping him between her legs, holding him down. Leaping off him as if he had burned her, Brienne ran back over to the beer keg where she had left her coat and hat. As she put them on, he did the same thing, obscuring his perfectly sculpted chest from her gaze. Brienne was very relieved. Once they were done, Mrs Heddle ushered them out of the cellar and back up the stairs, the fear still evident on her face.

"Is everything quite alright?" asked the Kingslayer.

Mrs Heddle shook her head. "Not here."

Brienne followed Mrs Heddle and the Kingslayer all the way up the stairs to the top floor of _The Sellsword _where Brienne knew there were a few rooms that could be rented for a price. Mrs Heddle led them down to the room at the end of the corridor which she unlocked with a skeleton key. She made sure all three of them were safely inside before she told them what was happening.

"_This _is what is wrong," she said, waving her arm in the direction of the bed.

Turning to look at what she was pointing at, Brienne's mouth dropped open in shock. Lying on the bed was an elderly man with a long white beard who was unmistakably dead. Deceased. An ex-man.

"He's dead," said the Kingslayer stupidly, stating the obvious.

"Good observation skills," clucked Brienne as Mrs Heddle went to stand next to the body.

"When Mr Pycelle checked in last night, he seemed to have a bit of a sniffle but if I had known he would _die _in his room I wouldn't have taken him in!" the landlady insisted.

"Why not call the coroner?" asked Brienne, remembering that was what Mrs Roelle had done when they had found Selwyn Tarth dead in his bed. "He can determine what the cause of death was and..." Her voice trailed off when she saw the way both Mrs Heddle and the Kingslayer were looking at her; as if she had gone completely and utterly mad.

"We can't do that!" squawked Mrs Heddle.

"Why not?" replied Brienne.

Seeing the landlady's state of alarm, the Kingslayer tried to explain. "Every criminal in Edinburgh uses _The Sellsword. _If the authorities come down here, sniffing around, Mrs Heddle will lose all her customers!"

"Oh."

"Yes, _oh,_" said the Kingslayer, before turning to Mrs Heddle. "What do you propose we do?"

She took a deep breath. "I do not know, but... I will pay you to get rid of the body."

"Get rid of the body!" squeaked Brienne, looking frantically at the Kingslayer. "We can't do that! He's just my..."

"How much?" the Kingslayer interrupted, ignoring Brienne's twittering.

"A pound... each."

"Two pounds and you've got yourself a deal," the Kingslayer said.

Mrs Heddle narrowed her eyes before nodding. "Two pounds, but if you get caught it's got nothing to do with me."

"Deal," he said, holding out his right hand for Mrs Heddle to shake. Brienne could do nothing but stammer as the landlady and the Kingslayer shook hands, and then watch as Mrs Heddle left the room, slamming the door behind her, leaving the problem in their hands.

In spite of her panic, Brienne eventually managed to say, "why the hell did you agree to that?"

He shrugged, looking down at Mr Pycelle's body. "I could do with two pounds. So, do you have any ideas?"

Brienne was still shocked that he had roped her into this stupid plan and had to struggle to keep her voice down. "Me? Why are you looking at me? _You _should have a better idea of what we do with a dead body!"

He looked at her confusedly. "Why?"

She did not want to be so coarse, but feeling she had to spell it out, she spat, "because _you _have actually killed someone. I haven't."

All hint of jocularity disappeared from his expression at her words. "Yes, but I did not bury the body personally." Clearly not wanting to dwell on the point, the Kingslayer turned back to Mr Pycelle, trying to paper over the moment of tension. "Shall we at least try and get him off the bed? It might be good to wrap him in a sheet."

Before Brienne could agree or disagree, the Kingslayer had pulled one of the spare sheets off one of the shelves and laid it on the floor. "This is a ridiculous idea," Brienne said, "what if we get caught? What if...?"

"Calm down, _Mr Flint," _he smirked. "I thought this type of overblown hysteria that often gets attributed to the fairer sex was not the way you comported yourself."

He was goading her once again and, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, she took a deep breath and stepped towards Mr Pycelle. "_Fine. _Do you want top or bottom?"

His eyes went wide at that, before he gave her a predatorial smile. "Oh, if you are interested, it's always the bottom for me."

Brienne thought he was trying to toy with her with that statement, but she did not quite get what he meant, so she said, "you can take his feet then."

He gave her a mocking nod of the head before doing what she said and walking to the bottom of the bed, taking Mr Pycelle's feet in his hands. Brienne went and took his arms. "Now," said the Kingslayer, "we'll go on the count of three. One, two..."

"Wait!"

"What?"

"Are we going on three, or are we going on go?"

The Kingslayer rolled his eyes. "Does it matter?"

"Yes!" she insisted. "I don't want to be carrying all the weight of a dead body myself. _You _are the boxer. You are the strong one."

He smirked at her again. "I don't know, you had me pinned down quite well earlier, Mr Flint."

"Shut up," she said, trying not to blush. "We are going on three." As he just kept smiling at her, she started to count. "One, two, three." In one big heave, they managed to get the old man off the bed and onto the floor on top of the blanket. Once he was there, they then had no idea what to do once again.

"Maybe we should wrap him up," said the Kingslayer, leaning down so he could fold the rest of the sheet over him. "It's respectful."

Brienne had to actively suppress a laugh at that statement. "Oh, yes. I've never seen someone show so much respect for the dead as we are now. We've taken him off the bed and put him on the floor and now we have no idea what to do with him."

"We could take him and bury him in Holyrood Park," suggested the Kingslayer.

Brienne rolled her eyes. "Oh yes, the king will love that won't he? He'll look out the window of Holyrood Palace and see us two trying to bury a body in his back garden."

"Have you got any other suggestions?" the Kingslayer asked, a flash of irritation dancing across his face.

Brienne closed her eyes and tried to think. There were no accessible green spaces nearby where they could easily dispose of a body. Neither could they turn up to a churchyard and try and secretly bury Mr Pycelle; somebody would notice. From where they were, it was a long way to the Firth of Forth, so it would be difficult to dump his body out in the water. They almost needed somebody who would be willing to take him off their hands, somebody who wanted a dead body...

The idea came to her in an instant.

"Mrs Tyrell told me there is an experimental surgeon in Cowgate who pays for fresh cadavers. His name is Doctor Qyburn."

The Kingslayer's eyes went wide at the mention of money. "How much?"

Brienne bit her lip. "I don't know. We would have to ask him once we got there."

Now they had a plan, they both looked down at the dead body lying between them. The Kingslayer raised an eyebrow at her. "Shall we just prop him up between us and pretend he is our very drunken friend on the way home from the pub? We could drag him?"

"All the way to Cowgate?" said Brienne incredulously. "Someone will spot us! We need to do something more subtle. I am sure I can think of it, as subtlety is my middle name."

"Is it?" he teased. "Unusual name for a girl."

She shot him another furious look before asking, "what about beer barrels? Has Mrs Heddle got a spare one? We could put him in that and roll him all the way to Cowgate."

The Kingslayer grinned at her. "I didn't know you were capable of such high levels of thinking, wench. I'll go and ask Mrs Heddle."

Before she could say another word, he had dashed out of the room. "Kingslayer! Kingslayer!" she hissed, but he did not come back. It was not that she would miss him, it just meant she was left entirely alone with Mr Pycelle and his very dead face. The Kingslayer had not done a good job at covering the corpse, because his eyes still stared out from under the sheet, cold and unseeing. That was exactly how her father had looked on the day he died. Brienne had been nine years old and had scarce understood any of it. Mrs Roelle had not offered kind words just platitudes about her father having _gone to meet his maker,_ then hurried Brienne off to Scotland. Eleven years later, Brienne had still had no time to process her father's death and she was still haunted by his skeletal stare. If she was honest with herself, she still had not quite accepted that she no longer lived on the Isle of Wight, nor that the Starks were her new guardians. Brienne thought her reluctance to accept what fate had dealt her had something to do with the fact her life had resulted in tragedy upon tragedy, until there were so many it blotted out the pain and almost became farce.

When she was sixteen, Lord Eddard Stark had died in a duel defending his honour, and his son Robb had followed not long after in the same cause, although this time the fight was tinged with vengeance. At the time, Robb had been staying in the Stark's smart London townhouse with their daughter Arya, but by the time Lady Catelyn had raced down to the city to fetch her, she was gone. Nobody ever knew where. The loss of her husband, son, and daughter in quick succession had driven Lady Catelyn almost mad with despair, even though Brienne and Sansa had tried all they could to keep her clinging on to reality. The final snap had come when Brienne was eighteen and a disgruntled servant, Mr Greyjoy, had decided to burn down the Stark's winter house in the Cairngorms over some perceived slight or other. Lady Catelyn's remaining two sons had perished in the inferno. It had been decided that Sansa would be the one to tell her mother the news. Standing outside the door, Brienne had expected to hear tears and screams of grief. Instead there had only been silence. When Brienne next saw her guardian, Lady Catelyn's eyes were cold and as dead as Selwyn Tarth's had been on the day he died, just as Mr Pycelle's were now. After that series of terrible events, Lady Catelyn did nothing but stare at walls with those dead eyes of hers and go and watch the hangings. Brienne assumed the nearness of death was the only thing that made her once caring guardian feel alive.

Lady Catelyn was gone. Stoneheart was all the remained. 

Yet Brienne did not have a stone heart, even though she was standing in a dingy room staring over a corpse. Kneeling down beside Mr Pycelle, she stretched across to close his eyes. It was something she had wished she had done for her father instead of being terrified of touching him. She wanted to do something comparable for Lady Catelyn; to close her eyes to the horrors of the world and help her find peace once more. As she could not do it for them, she did it for Mr Pycelle.

Brienne was getting back to her feet when the door burst open once more. This time it was the Kingslayer and Pod, who she had set to watch the horses while she trained with her new coach. To her surprise, her urchin squire looked red faced and excited at the opportunity to get involved in some intrigue.

"We have a barrel," said the Kingslayer, "but we can't get it through the door. We'll have to load him up in the hallway."

_Load him up, _thought Brienne, _like they were talking about cargo on a ship or cattle on a cattle truck._

Even though in her heart she was questioning the dubious morality of selling a cadaver, in truth Brienne knew all of them were in too deep now to turn back, even if she did not give a shit for the Kingslayer personally. In truth, she cared for her own life, and that of Mrs Heddle and Pod; they were innocents. Knowing she had little choice, Brienne helped the Kingslayer carry Mr Pycelle outside the room, and then watched as he tried to wedge Mr Pycelle in the barrel.

"I think it might be better if you fold him," she suggested gently.

The Kingslayer outright laughed at that. "Mr Flint, in case you haven't noticed we are trying to get a body into a barrel. We are not doing origami here." Yet, in spite of his mockery, he followed her idea, and they soon had Mr Pycelle stuffed into the barrel as if he were a roll of exceptionally cheap cloth.

* * *

As the three of them rolled the barrel containing Mr Pycelle across Edinburgh, Pod started whistling a jaunty tune, as if it would distract from the utter madness they now found themselves partaking in. Brienne was giving every person who passed them a suspicious glance, terrified that someone would figure out what they were up to.

"Calm down, wench," said the Kingslayer when he saw her expression. "Everybody just suspects we work for a cooper."

"But surely they can see we are doing something immoral," she hissed, casting a glance over her shoulder at a man in a top hat that walked by.

The Kingslayer shook his head. "Immorality isn't written on your face, or in your name. Nobody can see into your soul. Only you know if you truly have a black heart." His answer puzzled her and so, not having a response, Brienne tried to listen to Pod's tune. It was difficult, however, as the Kingslayer's green eyes were fixed on her.

"What's the matter?" she asked, not liking the way he was watching her.

"Nothing," he smiled, "I was just wondering."

"What?"

"If we get some money for the body, what will you spend yours on?" When she did not answer immediately, he started making suggestions. "A nice new bonnet?"

"Men don't wear bonnets," she scowled.

"No," he conceded, "but ladies do."

"You are not talking to a lady," she said, keeping her voice level. She was getting tired of this goading. Wanting to take the spotlight off her, she said, "what would you spend the money on?"

To her surprise his expression softened. "I want to see the sea."

Part of her wanted to scoff, but there was such a tender look in the Kingslayer's eyes that she knew it would be cruel to do so. Instead, she made a suggestion. "The Firth of Forth is not far away."

The corners of his mouth raised in an almost smile. "No, I want to see the proper sea. The Atlantic. Never-ending blue for as far as the eye can see, so far and so wide that Edinburgh is barely a speck on the horizon."

"You want to leave Edinburgh?" she asked, surprised. He was so much part of the fabric of the place that Brienne was amazed he wanted to become unstitched.

"Of course," he replied. "Edinburgh has not been... kind to my family. In an ideal world, I would start up a new life in America with my brother and sister. Maybe we won't be trapped in the darkness there."

"It is sunny in India," Brienne said, quite forgetting who she was talking to. "That's where I would go."

The slight invite into her personal truth seemed to intrigue him and he went to say something back but, before he could, Pod interrupted. "We are here. The Cowgate."

The Cowgate was a dark and narrow street standing in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle, perfect for loitering. To Brienne, it seemed an ideal setting for what they intended to do. Knowing they had to keep hidden until the plan was truly viable, the Kingslayer and Brienne rolled the barrel containing Mr Pycelle to a shadowy corner, while Pod began knocking on doors, trying to discover exactly where Doctor Qyburn lived.

The silence Brienne shared with the Kingslayer while they waited was a strange one. Although they said nothing, the sea, America, and India were in the air. She knew something about him other than his boxing record and his crime, while he had a piece of her in return. When she turned to watch him, he would look away. Perhaps it was because he had told her of his plans with the money from the cadaver; it was strangely intimate. Brienne had never known anything like it, and she did not have the bravery to sever the cord of quiet. As he was the tougher person - older, more experienced - eventually, he found the courage to break it.

"Do you know why I want to see the sea?" he asked.

"No."

He took a breath, "because I like the colour blue. I find it calming."

There was something mildly terrifying about this conversation, so Brienne looked at the floor. "You can find the colour blue anywhere. It's all around Edinburgh."

"Not that spectacular colour I imagine the Atlantic is," he said, his voice as smooth as velvet.

"Are you sure?" Brienne thought of the blue of the rich silk dress that Sansa had made for her engagement party, or the expensive ink that Mrs Roelle bought to write her letters, or even the dark coat jacket that the Kingslayer was wearing that very evening.

She had expected him to make a joke or deny there was anything more beautiful than the blue of the sea, but instead he brushed his fingers against her chin to make her look up at him. There was something intense in his eyes as he gazed at her. "Perhaps there is one place I can see such a blue, Brave Danny Flint."

Brienne would have been cross with him for trying to suggest she was a woman once more, but there was a softness to his touch that she had not quite expected. Momentarily lost to everything but his gaze, she asked, "where?"

He did not give her an answer to her question, but instead posed his own. "What is your name?"

"I... I... I..."

To Brienne's immense relief (or disappointment) at that moment Pod reappeared and the Kingslayer dropped his hand. Her urchin squire grinned at them both. "I've found Doctor Qyburn. Come with me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Once again, comments and kudos make my heart sing!
> 
> Next chapter... Brienne and Jaime meet Doctor Qyburn...


	5. Jaime II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne visit Doctor Qyburn...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I hope you are enjoying this story! As ever, I really appreciate comments and kudos!

With Pod's help, Jaime rolled the barrel containing the folded up Mr Pycelle into the hallway of Doctor Qyburn's house. It was a beautiful home, if a little dark. The walls were all deep mahogany and the furniture plush velvet. Pictures hung on the walls, but they were not of stern patriarchs and sour matrons, but of human bodies; there was Da Vinci's _Vitruvian Man _and a drawing of the circulatory system according to William Harvey. Jaime's mouth fell open in spite of himself. He could not imagine living in such luxury.

Mr Daniel Flint looked entirely nonplussed.

After few minutes, a maid with mousy blonde hair came into the hallway, her face expressionless. "How may I help you?" she asked. "It is very late."

Pod looked at Mr Flint, who turned to Jaime, her blue eyes wide. In the darkness of the room, her freckles only illuminated by a gas lamp, Jaime thought it was quite preposterous that she honestly expected him to view her as a man. Her skin seemed so soft, her hair so...

"Kingslayer," she whispered desperately. Her tone made him realise that she wished him to take charge.

"Oh yes," he said, turning back to the maid. "We have a delivery for Doctor Qyburn. Is he in?"

The girl looked a little whey-faced and terrified as she said, "he's down in his laboratory. He does not like to be disturbed."

Brave Danny Flint gave Jaime a look that said _what do we do now? _Ignoring her, he smiled at the maid in a way he hoped was charming. "Well, he will like what we have for him so... can you send us down now?"

The maid bit her lip, but eventually nodded. "Alright. Come with me."

The three of them decided amongst themselves that Pod would stay with the barrel, and then Jaime and Brave Danny Flint followed the maid down a narrow set of stairs behind a tapestry of a lion chasing a sun. As the stairway narrowed, Brave Danny Flint dropped behind Jaime, and she was close enough that when she whispered, he could feel her hot breath on his neck.

"This is not a good idea."

He tried not to roll his eyes. "This was _your _idea!"

"Yes, but... I feel like we are being led straight down to hell."

Jaime shrugged. "At least it is warm down there."

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Jaime discovered he was wrong as it was icy cold in the subterranean cellar. The maid seemed to sense something was ill at foot too, as she shrunk into the shows as they entered the laboratory. Even though she tried to make herself invisible, she did not avoid Doctor Qyburn's wrath. "Senelle! I told you I did not want to be disturbed!"

"I am sorry sir," Senelle mumbled, "but these people said they had a delivery for you."

As Jaime stepped further into the room, he got his first sight of Doctor Qyburn. He was a tall man with straggling greying hair and brown eyes, wearing a long white coat that was stained with blood. When he smiled, he looked like a horror straight out of hell. Qyburn's eyes moved from Jaime to Brave Danny Flint and back again with an uncomfortable coldness. Feeling suddenly protective of his wench, Jaime stepped slightly in front of her.

"Good evening, Doctor Qyburn. My name is Mr Lannister, and this is Mr Flint." Jaime could have sworn that Brave Danny Flint smiled at that, but maybe he was just hallucinating. "We heard that you pay a price for certain... commodities."

Doctor Qyburn raised his eyebrows before turning back to his table. "What commodities are you talking about, Mr Lannister?" he said, pulling the white sheet that covered it up into the air, revealing the dead body of the largest man Jaime had ever seen. He suddenly understood Brave Danny Flint's nerves.

Thinking there was no point beating around the bush, Jaime said, "I hear you pay a price for dead bodies."

From any other man, Jaime would have expected a reaction; a gasp, a flinch, an objection. Instead, Doctor Qyburn turned away and picked up a scalpel, before looking down at the body on the table. He started carving into the dead flesh as he spoke. "I pay for _undamaged _bodies. I don't want broken limbs or smashed up faces."

Jaime was about to say they had the perfect specimen upstairs for him in a beer barrel, but Brave Danny Flint interrupted. "What do you need them for?"

The doctor's voice was strangely gentle when he said, "science."

"Science?" Brave Danny Flint asked. "I heard you did dissections... are they like the ones Doctor Samwell Tarly does?"

Doctor Qyburn made a disgusted sound. "Tarly does nothing original, nothing new. He just dissects to understand the human body; how the heart and brain works. I am not interested in the heart and the brain. I am interested in the soul and the mind."

Jaime looked at him quizzically. "What's the difference?"

To his surprise, it was not Qyburn that answered, but Brave Danny Flint. "The heart and brain are just muscle and viscera. The mind and soul are something much more... immaterial."

Doctor Qyburn smiled. "Very good, Mr Flint. And do you know why I am interested in the immaterial?"

She shook her head. "No, why?"

Jaime was still looking at Brave Danny Flint when the Doctor said, "because I am interested in what makes us human." Her eyes dropped to the body lying on the table and Jaime followed her example. He had to admit, at that moment, the mass of flesh did not look very human. It disturbed him.

"What makes us human?" asked Jaime tentatively.

"_And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground_," said Qyburn, quoting Genesis, "_and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul._ We live in an age of science, Mr Lannister. Who is man and who is God? That's what I want to find out."

Jaime turned to Brave Danny Flint just to check if she was as happy as he was to sell a corpse to an utter lunatic. Her expression did not show too many extremes of emotion, so he took it as a yes. "How much will you pay us for a dead body?"

"Twenty pounds if it is fresh."

Jaime's insides swooped. _Twenty pounds. _If he split it with the wench, that would be a whole _ten pounds, _as much as he made during a prize fight. And this way, he did not have to get punched several times. The tickets to America would be in his hands before he knew it. It was a win-win situation. Jaime went to agree to Qyburn's price, but Brave Danny Flint interrupted him.

"What... what... what do you do with the bodies?"

Qyburn smiled at them both, looking as if he had had a vision of another world. "I play God."

* * *

"Well, Doctor Qyburn was strange, but he gave us twenty pounds, so I am not complaining," said Jaime as he went outside with Brave Danny Flint and Pod after they had handed over the barrel.

His wench looked a little tormented. "This feels dishonourable..." she tried to say, but he held a hand up to stop her speaking.

"You heard the doctor," said Jaime. "The Royal Society limit his access to cadavers because he is not a gentleman scientist. We are just levelling the playing field."

She gave him a concerned look. "I suppose. And it is only this one... right?"

"Of course," he smiled, trying to reassure her. "Where else are we going to get convenient dead bodies?"

"True," she replied. In the moonlight, he could have sworn the corners of her mouth turned upwards. Jaime took that as the first proper smile she had given him.

"So, same time next Saturday?"

Brave Danny Flint looked at him as if he were mad. "You still want to train me... after everything?"

Jaime shrugged. "Why not? I get two shillings and you are not bad company."

Pod's eyes flicked between Brave Danny Flint and himself, almost smirking. Jaime wondered whether the boy could see she was obviously a woman, wondering if that was why he was laughing.

Brave Danny Flint nodded. "If you want. I would like to get better at boxing."

"Good, I will see you then, Brave Danny Flint." Jaime could have sworn the went turned a lovely pink colour in the evening light, the moonlight catching in her eyes. She was so unusual to look at, he found it difficult to stop staring.

"Well... yes," she agreed, standing up straight and turning to Pod. "We need to get back to _The Sellsword. _Our horses are still there."

"I am going to walk home," he said, smiling at them both, "so I will see you next week."

"Yes," she said, not quite looking at him. "Good night, Kingslayer."

_Kingslayer, _he thought sadly. Strangely, it stung when she said it.

* * *

On the way back to his house, Jaime noticed he was developing a bruise on his wrist where Brave Danny Flint had held him down. Pushing it gently, he revelled in the echo of pain in brought. It reminded him how strong she was, how he had barely been able to resist her full weight and force, and how much potential she had as a boxer. If he had wanted to move himself from underneath her, Jaime was not sure he would have been strong enough.

_Fuck that she's a woman, _he thought, _she could be better than us all._

He was still thinking on what he would be teaching her next week when he heard a grunt of pain and a whimper. Cocking his head Jaime tried to listen, determined to pick out where the sound was coming from in the darkness.

"Shut up you stupid bitch," came a man's voice, sheathed with a lisp. "Be fucking quiet."

"But sir," came a trembling response. "I'm not well sir. Please, not tonight... not tonight..."

There was a loud, stinging sound; a slap. "You will do what I tell you, Pia. If I tell you to fuck three men in one night, you do it. Do you hear me?"

If Jaime already disliked Vargo Hoat, now he positively despised him. Just because he was bigger, stronger, and had a few friends, the man thought he had the right to march round the slums stamping on it like an evil deity. Marching into the shadows, Jaime found the disgusting Mr Hoat with his hand round Pia's throat, pinning her to the wall. Not being able to control the anger suddenly taking hold of him, he pulled him off with all the force he could muster.

_Does he do this to Cersei?_

Once Pia was free, she cowered behind Jaime, her whole body shaking. "Leave her alone, Hoat," growled Jaime, trying to keep his voice steady. "The lady said no."

Mr Hoat just laughed. "Who cares what a whore says?"

Jaime thought of Cersei's green eyes. "I do."

Smirking, Mr Hoat drew himself up to his full height, his expression a cruel disfigurement. "Just because you are the bastard son of Lord Tywin Lannister, you think you rule this slum, but you are wrong. _I _do. The Brave Companions do. And if you dare cross us..."

"You'll do what?" spat Jaime, unconsciously grasping at Pia's wrist for a strange form of comfort.

Vargo stepped forward, his hatred illuminated by the moonlight. "I'll make you wish you never did."

Jaime's skin crawled at having that disgusting man so close, so he tried to get him to move away. "Get away from me, Mr Hoat."

"Or what?"

"I'll punch you straight in your stupid smug face," Jaime said. It was honest, the only logical outcome of his rage. Boxing was all he knew.

"Go on then."

"What?"

"Do it," he snarled Hoat, "punch me."

Jaime shook his head. He would not rise to Hoat's bait. Instead, he turned around and gripped Pia's hand. "Come on, we're going." Pia came without complaint. Going to put an arm round her, Jaime found he was blocked by Hoat's hand on his arm.

"I knew you didn't have the balls."

The Kingslayer was not a man for second chances. He did not hesitate in cracking his fist into Hoat's face, sending the lisping little creep tumbling to the floor. Mr Hoat's nose exploded in a torrent of blood which mixed with the saliva on his lips. "You'll pay for this, Kingslayer! Don't think you won't!" Jaime wasn't listening anymore. Putting his arm around Pia, he marched her down the road in the direction of his house. Jaime could not give a shit about Hoat; he was a little man with little ambitions. Jaime wanted to be something better.

_I can defend myself, _he thought. _And Pia, and Cersei, and Tyrion, and Brave Danny Flint if I need to._

It was only when they were most of the way down the street that he noticed Pia was looking at him with starlight in her eyes. "Sir," she said, her voice quavering. "You saved me."

"It was nothing," mumbled Jaime.

"It was not nothing, it was..."

At that point, Pia started to cough; long hacking splutters that would not stop. Rooting around in his pocket, Jaime found his handkerchief and handed it to her. She was coughing too hard to say thank you. As they walked in the darkness, Jaime rubbed her back, hoping it would help. Wanting to be comforting, he found it difficult not to flinch away because, when he touched her, he noticed how skeletal she was. Small, and weak, and ill, Jaime did not understand why anyone would pay to use her body for a night. It would be like fucking a corpse. It was only when they got back to his house that Pia recovered herself and returned his handkerchief to him, wiping her mouth with her hand.

"Thank you sir," she smiled.

"Jaime," he said. "My name is Jaime. Now come, I'll find you somewhere warm to sleep tonight."

Holding his hand out, he gestured for her to go into the house. Smiling at him gratefully, Pia did what he instructed, while Jaime looked down at the small piece of cloth she had given him.

It was only then that he noticed the flecks of blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo... I hope you liked that! If you did enjoy (or if you didn't) please consider leaving a comment. It makes me a better writer :)
> 
> Next chapter... Brienne tries to balance boxing with Jaime with the rest of her life...


	6. Brienne IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Brienne Tarth will never be a lady...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and welcome back everyone! I hope you are enjoying this story. If you are, I luuurrrvvveee comments and kudos :)

"SLUUUUUUUUMMMMBEEEERRR DEEEEAAARRR MAID!" Miss Margaery Tyrell wailed from her position at the piano while everyone else pretended she sounded like a songbird. "GRREEEEENNNN BOOOOOWWWERRRSSS WIIIILLL COOOOOVERRR THEE!"

Trying to avoid covering her ears at Margaery's squawking, Brienne attempted to zone out by making sure she was properly balanced on her feet in the orthodox stance; bending her knees and keeping her body soft, just as the Kingslayer had taught her. She was determined to get better at it, because whenever she wasn't perfectly balanced, he found some way to knock her off her feet and pin her to the floor.

"Yield, my lady," he would purr.

"I am not a lady!" she would splutter under the force of his weight. "I am Mr Daniel Flint..."

"Of Friar's Wynd," he would drawl. "I know... I know... but why keep up this pretence? Tell me your real name?"

_Tell me your real name._

_Tell me your real name._

_Tell me your real name._

They had now had three sessions since the first when they had got distracted by a corpse in a barrel, and Brienne thought she had improved considerably. Yet, even so, every time she found herself pinned to the floor under the Kingslayer, he would demand the same thing - _tell me your real name _\- as if he were genuinely interested in the answer. However, in spite of his best efforts, she had not given up her secret yet. Using her strength as well as little tricks he had taught her, Brienne would always succeed in getting him off her. She had learnt that the Kingslayer had a slight weakness in the right ankle, as well as the fact that if she brushed his ribs with her hand, he would flush bright red and accuse her of tickling him.

The Kingslayer had shown her many more holds through which one could keep the opponent at bay, but no punches. In truth, Brienne was nervous that if she got hit in the face it would be perfectly obvious to Lady Catelyn and Mrs Roelle that Brienne was not truly going to bed early on Saturday evenings. The Kingslayer seemed to sense her disquiet, so he only talked to her about punches theoretically and would never try to hit her. For that reason, Brienne sometimes questioned whether her Saturday training sessions were actually preparing her for really boxing in the ring, or whether wrestling on the floor with him was something else entirely. She tried not to dwell on that thought too much.

Lost to the thought of green eyes, she was brought back to earth by the sound of Miss Margaery Tyrell once again reaching the chorus.

"SLUUUUUUUUMMMMBEEEERRR DEEEEAAARRR MAID!"

"Miss Tarth," came a hiss. Brienne turned around to see Mrs Roelle beside her, her expression firm. "Why are you standing up here with bowlegs? It is very unladylike!" Brienne tried not to sigh, but even so she let her old governess nudge her into an upright position. She knew it did not do well to argue. Mrs Roelle was not content with her acquiescence, however, and she spat, "why do you always have to be such a disappointment? Miss Tyrell is over there singing like a nightingale..."

"GRREEEEENNNN BOOOOOWWWERRRSSS WIIIILLL COOOOOVERRR THEE!"

"... and you are over here doing your best impression of a bowlegged troll. Why can you not behave like a lady?"

Brienne could feel the tears prick at the corner of her eyes. No matter how many years passed, Mrs Roelle always had the ability to wound as well as if she were holding a knife. For the whole of her life, Brienne had found herself beaten with the same old insults, and it had taught her one incontrovertible truth.

_I, Miss Brienne Tarth, will never be a lady._

* * *

The following Saturday, the Kingslayer had her in yet another hold in the cellar of _The Sellsword. _This time she was lying on the floor on the stomach while he knelt over her, his knees either side of her hips and his arm locked under her chin. Although it was a boxing hold, he was touching her gently, so in a weird way it almost felt like an embrace.

_I cannot remember the last time someone held me, _Brienne thought distantly.

"Now, how would you try and free yourself?" he asked. Instinctively, Brienne arched her back, trying to push him off her. However, the Kingslayer stayed firm. He chuckled in her ear. "Not like that, wench," he muttered. "Think again."

Trying to think it through logically (which she found very difficult, giving his overwhelming heat and the raw smell of him), she eventually attempted to wiggle free. When he just tightened his grip, she huffed, "let go!"

"No," he smirked. "Do you yield, Brave Danny Flint?"

"No!"

He pressed a little more of his weight onto her. "Are you sure? Because I could easily help you up if you just tell me your name."

Vexed, she hissed, "I've told you my name! It is Mr Daniel Flint!"

Although she could not see his face, Brienne was sure the Kingslayer was rolling his eyes. "Why do we have to keep up this pretence? I know you are lying."

"I am not lying!" she insisted, struggling against him, but he just held her tighter against him. She could almost feel the hairs on his chest through the thin material of her shirt.

"Yes you are," he purred. "I know you are a woman. I can hear it in the way you speak. I know it in the way you feel between my thighs. Even the skin under your chin is too soft to belong to a man. You are a lady as much as I am a man, so please, just tell me your name."

As he made his demand for what felt like the hundredth time that evening, Brienne noticed his body relaxed ever so slightly, and it gave her the opportunity to spin herself round and push him off her. He landed on the hard stone floor with a thud.

"I am not a lady!" she almost shouted, getting to her feet, even as he laughed.

_I, Miss Brienne Tarth, will never be a lady._

* * *

And yet Brienne still found herself in a woman's prison. Every day she did not spend as Mr Daniel Flint with the Kingslayer, Brienne remained locked in the house with her guardian and her governess. Lady Catelyn spent most of her time alone, praying or cursing a distant God, Brienne did not know, so instead, Brienne was forced to endure Mrs Roelle's company. Together, they would sit and embroider, or Mrs Roelle would listen to her play the piano, or maybe they would paint.

"How many times, Brienne? Don't prick yourself with the needle! Look, you've got blood all over your work. It's always just so sloppy. Why couldn't you be like Sansa? Her embroidery was always so beautiful!"

"Honestly, your piano playing would be better if your fingers were replaced by a bunch of bananas. I do not understand how someone can practice so much and still be so awful!"

"Who is that painting of? Yourself? All I'm seeing is some beastly monstrosity. You must label it _Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum!"_

Another difficulty of being a woman was that money slipped through Brienne's fingers before she had time to grasp onto it. Ever since she had been paid for Mr Pycelle's body by Doctor Qyburn, she had only been _spending; _on a new bonnet that Mrs Roelle had insisted would cover up her ugly hair, on stamps to write to Sansa, on her boxing classes with the Kingslayer. Even though she knew most of it was out of her control, Brienne despaired with herself; how would she ever have enough money to escape with Sansa if she kept spending so easily?

It did not help that Sansa's letters were getting increasingly desperate.

_Dear Brienne, _

_My husband will be home next week, and I am scared. If business has gone badly, he will be not be kind, the opposite in fact. My maids have already noticed my bruises and I have run out of lies to tell them. How many times can I trip and fall down the stairs until it stops being believable?_

_Please tell me your endeavours are going well and you are successfully raising the money._

_Yours, Sansa._

After she read that one, Brienne put it in the fire and cried. How could she keep giving Sansa hope when she felt her own trickling away? Two tickets to India cost sixty pounds, and that was without the money needed to keep themselves afloat once they got there are started to look for work as governesses or nurses. Even though she was trying her best, Brienne was finding it increasingly hard to see where she was going to get the money from. Boxing was an option but, given the Kingslayer's constant insistence that she was a woman, it would be especially hard to hide the truth of her birth, and even more so the bruises when she got home.

Indeed, the only sure fire way of making money was selling a fresh cadaver to Doctor Qyburn, and where was she going to get one of those?

Something approaching an answer came halfway through February, when the _Edinburgh Ladies Temperance and Virtue Society _all garbed themselves in black to mourn one of their members. It turned out it was not Miss Tyrell's singing that eventually did for Miss Falyse Stokeworth, but her advanced state of consumption.

"It's all so terribly sad," Mrs Roelle twittered as she, Brienne, and Lady Catelyn journeyed down to the Stokeworth's house in the family carriage. "She was so young. And it leaves poor Mrs Stokeworth childless."

_That's untrue, _thought Brienne. It was well known that Tanda Stokeworth had a second daughter, Lollys, who had always been hidden away. Some said she was ill, others that she had fathered a bastard child after being raped. Brienne did not like to speculate.

When they arrived at the Stokeworth's house, Mrs Tanda Stokeworth flitted around Lady Catelyn - _a real lady, in my house!_\- while Brienne went into the parlour where they were keeping Falyse in an open casket, like a morbid spectacle. As Brienne peered down at her, she noticed a blueish tinge to the girl's skin.

_Would Doctor Qyburn count this as an undamaged body? _she thought, before turning away, cross with herself.

Ladies did not have such unladylike thoughts.

_But I, Miss Brienne Tarth, will never be a lady._

* * *

The next time she saw the Kingslayer, he asked her to stay after their session and share a drink with him in _The Sellsword_. Brienne tried to refuse, saying that everybody at home would miss her.

"What's half an hour more? And anyway, Pod's having a fun time with that serving girl over there," he said, giving Brienne one of his brilliant smiles.

She tried to ignore the heat in her cheeks when she agreed.

To her surprise, the Kingslayer could talk about things other than boxing. Wanting to know something from behind his mask, Brienne had started with the never-ending blue of the Atlantic and began unspooling him from there. Journeying from the sea to the promise of a new land, they eventually discussed his distant dream of America and his family.

"My brother and sister could both do with starting afresh somewhere new and why not in the New World?" he said a little wistfully, taking a sip of his beer.

"Do you really think you will get there one day?" Brienne asked.

He gave her a sad smile. "No, where would I ever get the money? I'm getting old, my boxing career will be coming to an end soon. Dreaming of better days seems... pointless, somehow."

Part of her wanted to reach out a touch him - his face, his shoulder, the soft patch of skin on the inside of his wrist - but instead she just gave him a firm look. "Bad things happen to people," Brienne said sagely, "but sometimes you've got to just get up. Live and take revenge, that's all there is to do in life. You will get the money if you really try."

The Kingslayer laughed. "And how do you propose I do that?"

"There are other ways to make money than just boxing," Brienne insisted.

"Like what, Mr Flint?"

She tried not to blush as she dropped her voice. "Well... we know a certain person will pay for a barrel full of a _certain commodity."_

The Kingslayer leant forward, drawn into her conspiracy. "But where are we going to get that... _certain commodity?"_

Brienne's mind flitted to Miss Falyse Stokeworth's slightly blue face, before chiding herself on what a very unladylike thought she was having.

_But I, Miss Brienne Tarth, will never be a lady._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you forgot, I love a comment. I really appreciate knowing how I am doing :)
> 
> Next chapter... Brienne's unladylike thoughts lead to unladylike actions...


	7. Jaime III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne put a slightly crazy plan into action...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is late! I've got a super busy week this week, so I will probably be slower on the updating. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

"Ow," Brave Danny Flint moaned, "you are elbowing me."

"Sorry, wench," Jaime smiled, "it's just there's not much room in this bush. I need to stretch out a bit."

Even as she scowled at him, Jaime had to try and suppress a laugh. This whole situation was entirely hysterical, and that she was taking it all so deadly seriously was just endearing. Her face pale in the evening light, she whispered, "can you see if the verger is gone?"

Jaime got on his knees and peeked up over the top of the bush, trying to see through the darkness. "He's still fumbling with his keys by the church door. We could be here some time."

She huffed at that. "How long do you reckon he will be? We can't leave Pod waiting forever."

"Pod will be fine," Jaime insisted. They had set him up as lookout by the cemetery gate, sitting in Jaime's cart with several empty barrels in the back. It would make smuggling her out easier. "If anyone sees him, they'll just think he's a cooper doing his rounds."

They waited a few more minutes in silence watching as the verger crossed the churchyard and then disappeared into the night. When he was gone, Jaime got up to leave the prickly uncomfortableness of the bush, but she grasped his arm and pulled him back down, whispering, "not yet. Let's wait a few more moments. He may come back." Sighing, Jaime nevertheless agreed to her plan and stayed hidden in the bush with her. It wasn't such a terrible punishment to be pressed close to Brave Danny Flint anyway.

After a few more minutes of awkward closeness in a prickly bush, Brave Danny Flint finally gave Jaime the nod that meant the coast was clear. Creeping out from their hiding spot, the two of them began to venture into the churchyard with their shovels, Mr Flint casting nervous glances around the scene.

"So," began Jaime, "where is this Miss Stokewell buried?"

"_Stokeworth,_" she corrected. "Can you at least try to be respectful of the dead?"

Jaime had to suppress a laugh. "It was your idea to try and dig her up even though you only went to her funeral _yesterday."_

Her expression was serious. "Doctor Qyburn said he wanted the bodies undamaged. We don't have a lot of time before Miss Stokeworth decomposes... she was already looking a little blue the last time I saw her."

"Well," scoffed Jaime, "it must be a bit depressing to discover you are dead."

For a moment, Jaime thought Brave Danny Flint was going to hit him with her shovel, so he pre-emptively ducked. She just smirked. "Do I scare you, Kingslayer?"

"No," he insisted, standing up straight once more, "it's just I know it's wise to duck after you wind up a woman wielding a shovel."

"I am not..."

"Yes, yes, I know," he interrupted, trying to hide his amusement, "you are not a woman. Which way are we going?"

At the evocation of her obvious femininity, Brave Danny Flint looked at him sullenly, before leading him across the churchyard to a newly dug grave lying in the shadow of the church spire, for which the headstone had not yet been installed.

"I think it's this one," she said.

"_Think!" _he hissed. "We're going to need better than _think _if we are going to start grave digging."

"I _know _it's this one, I was here for the funeral yesterday."

Jaime looked down at the pile of freshly dug earth. There were also a couple more recently dug graves scattering around, so he wanted to be completely certain before they started. Picking up his shovel, Jaime poked the mound a couple of times. "Hello? Miss Stokeworth? Are you in there?"

"Shut up!" snapped Brave Danny Flint as Jaime laughed. "Shut up and get digging!"

The two of them mostly worked in silence as they dug all the way down to the coffin, apart from when Jaime asked Brave Danny Flint if she was proud of being the world's first female gravedigger. She just shot him yet another irritated look at that, which he had started to think was her way of being affectionate. Distracted by her, Jaime only realised they had reached Miss Stokeworth when he heard the _clunk _as his shovel hit the coffin.

"I've found her," Jaime smirked. Climbing down into the hole, he reached for the crowbar he had brought with them and wrenched the coffin open. He had to suppress a laugh when saw the person within. "I did not expect Miss Stokeworth to have a moustache", he said when he realised he was staring down at a portly older gentleman with a mostly decomposed face. "As you keep insisting you are a man, I assume you now want to insist that this is a woman called Miss Falyse Stokeworth."

That statement earned him another sullen expression as they attempted to bury the man once more. Jaime just smiled at her; riling her was so fun. Once moustache man was once more safely interred, Brave Danny Flint led him over to another newly dug grave. "Maybe it's this one."

"Let's hope so, wench."

Miss Falyse Stokeworth's grave was slightly shallower, so luckily they took less time digging up the coffin. When Jaime managed to crowbar the top open, he was surprised to find that there was a slight blue tinge to her face, but other than that, she looked undamaged.

_Perfect, _he thought.

"Help me," he said, leaning climbing down into grave to pull Miss Falyse Stokeworth out from her eternal rest. Her cheeks a little red, Brave Danny Flint extended her arms down to him to help him lift the body out from the grave.

"Have you got her?" Jaime asking, steadying the corpse.

"Yes, just perhaps move a little..."

"GRAVEDIGGERS!"

Jaime snapped his head around and, to his horror, saw several soldiers of the City Watch standing at the gate of the churchyard. "Wench!" Jaime shouted, pulling Miss Falyse Stokeworth back down to him so he could tuck her under his arm, thankful she was so tiny. "Help me up!"

Brave Danny Flint did not wait a moment; reaching out, her hands were on him, hauling him up and out with the force of an oncoming storm. Jaime scrabbled up out of the grave as quickly as he could, a corpse under his arm, and then followed Mr Flint in madly tearing across the churchyard, away from the City Watch who were armed with guns and towards Pod's cart. Jaime thought it was a strange experience having to bomb across a graveyard with a cross-dressing wench while carrying a dead body, but part of him also felt freer than he ever had.

"Drive!" yelled Brave Danny Flint at Pod as they reached the cart. "The City Watch are on our tail!" Pod's eyes went wide as Jaime and Mr Flint leapt into the cart, but then immediately kicked the horses into life and sent them all charging down the road. Just as he did so, the City Watch made it out into the street, and aimed a few stray shots at them. One whistled past close to Danny Flint Ear, but she jerked away in time, and it turned out that Pod was enough of a precision driver to enable them to flee into the night.

When Miss Falyse Stokeworth was safely stored in a barrel, Jaime leant across and squeezed Brave Danny Flint's hand, which caused her to let out a little squeak. He did not care, because although he smelt of death he had never felt so alive as when he had run into the night with her.

* * *

Brave Danny Flint looked positively overjoyed when she had the money for Miss Falyse Stokeworth's corpse in her hand, even if she had told Pod how guilty she felt as they drove back from Doctor Qyburn's to _The Sellsword _to pick up their horses. Unlike Jaime, Pod was shaken from their run in with the City Watch, so asked Brave Danny Flint if he could stop and get a drink before he escorted her home.

"Of course," she said, giving him a weary smile. "Kingslayer, will you be getting one too?"

Jaime shook his head. He was already buzzing; he did not need any more stimulants. "No, I stink of death. I want to go and clean up." He tried to keep a twinkle out of his eye as he said, "do you care to join me?"

Brave Danny Flint watched him with uneasy eyes before taking a sniff of her coat and nodding in agreement, following him outside _The Sellsword_. They walked in silence, side by side, to a small pond a few minutes from the pub. Brave Danny Flint knelt down next to the water, cupping some of the liquid in her hands to splash her face and neck. Jaime was intending something a little bit more dramatic.

"What do you think you are doing?" she spluttered when she saw his plan.

He was totally naked by the time he said, "taking my clothes off. I had to carry a corpse while running across a churchyard. I need to get clean."

Jaime took some time in getting into the pond. There was a veil of green algae skimming the top of the water, but Jaime thought it was preferable to the smell of corpse, so slid in slowly. Gliding across the water, he went to rest his back against the side so he could turn to face her. She was the darkest shade of red he had ever seen. It made him laugh.

"Care to join me?" he smiled.

"No, I most certainly do not," she snapped back, taking her boots off so she could sit on the edge and dangle her feet in. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Flatter myself?" he laughed, "you are the one blushing, wench."

Her expression twisted into a scowl. "I would not blush over someone like _you_."

"Someone like me?"

Even though Jaime knew she was only being so waspish with him because she was embarrassed at the sight of him naked, it still hurt when she spat his hated nickname - _Kingslayer _\- at him. It made him snap back at her. "There it is. There's the look. I've seen it over and over again on face after face. You all despise me. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Man without Honour."

She was clearly not in the mood to twist words with him. "Everybody knows what you did... how you killed your old boxing master... Aerys "The Mad King" Targaryen. That's how you got your name... _Kingslayer."_

"And what a king he was," said Jaime sarcastically. "It wasn't just the ring he ruled, although he never lost a match. Aerys ruled all the slums of the city, was in charge of every brothel and protection racket that you could find. The Mad King murdered those he disagreed with, raped his wife when he wanted to punish her, burnt down the homes of his enemies; he did not care who he hurt. And then he got in the boxing ring and the crowds cheered him."

As his tone became more and more bitter, her expression softened - clearly she knew little of Aerys Targaryen other than what she had heard from those who condemned him as the Kingslayer - and it convinced Jaime to continue his story. "My father was a local lord, but he cared little for the three children he sired on a local tavern wench, particularly when she bore him a dwarf."

Her eyes widened. "A dwarf?"

"My brother, Tyrion," he said, his mouth turning upwards in an echo of a smile as a swell of affection hit him. "It was up to me to look after him, and because I can't read for shit and did not fancy driving myself to an early grave in a mill, I became a boxer and looked for someone to train me. Aerys was the best of them all - his uppercut could shatter a man's jaw, they said, and he was undefeated in combat, even to the end. But Aerys wasn't one to give things for free, even to struggling orphans. He had his... price..."

"Price?" she asked, her eyes shining in the moonlight.

"I had to become one of his men," he said, trying not to be pulled away inside himself by shadowy memories. "An enforcer, a runner, a getaway driver. Whatever he wanted. Aerys used to be scared people were trying to kill him, so he would have me stand outside his bedroom door as a bodyguard, listening to him beat his wife."

"You would stand there in silence?" she said, horrified. Her expression was such that Jaime thought she had some personal experience of the horror that could occur behind closed doors and wondered whether she knew a woman who was similarly trapped.

"In silence," he confirmed. "What else could I do? Aerys ruled the slums, he ruled the world I lived in and I was only one man, a tiny cog in the entire system. And in exchange for my silence he made me a boxer."

When she next spoke, her words were quiet and considered. "You could have killed him. You did... eventually."

Jaime was not ashamed. "I did."

Confusion reigned on her face at his easy admittance. "Why did you kill him? I mean, what made you decide... in the end?"

"Aerys saw traitors everywhere; in the slums, in the streets, in the pubs. He had half the neighbourhood paying him protection money, yet it was never enough. Aerys always wanted more; more money, more blood, more fear and when the people wouldn't pay, he decided to burn them all." Her eyes were wide and full of terror as he told her the truth. "He put barrels of gunpowder all over the neighbourhood. Under houses, stables, pubs, even under _The Sellsword. _Nobody stopped him because everyone was terrified. Nobody but me."

"You," she said. It was not a question but a statement, as if she was for the first time properly considering who he was.

"_Me,_" Jaime stated, putting himself at the centre of a narrative that so often felt as if it had been woven around him. "I begged him not to, begged him to stop, but he wouldn't listen to me. _Burn them all, _he kept saying. _Burn them all. _I decided to stop him. _Me. _Only me. And everyone despises me for it, because in spite of it all, poor dead Aerys Targaryen is still the Mad King, a legend in his own day, with an uppercut that could shatter jaws, and I am just... Jaime."

He watched her, her ankles dangling in the pond, her eyes on him, wondering how she would react. Would Brave Danny Flint accept his story? Could she see the world was full of hard decisions? The answer came in a tender look in her blue eyes and in a single word.

"Jaime."

His breath caught in his throat. It was the first time she had ever used his name, and it wasn't even a polite _Mr Lannister. _Instead, she had used the only name that was entirely his: his Christian name, Jaime. Moving across the pool so he was standing in front of her, Jaime gazed into her iridescent eyes, overwhelmed by the simple gesture of her giving him back his name. He wanted to hear it again. Gazing at her, he tried to convey that aching need without words. The next few seconds were agony, as if he was waiting in the docks for a judge to pronounce a death sentence on him. Eventually, Brave Danny Flint freed him.

"Jaime," she whispered again. His name sounded like music on her tongue.

Jaime pushed forward once more so he was in a position that if he tilted himself _just so _he could slip between her thighs. "My name is Jaime," he confirmed. Now he wanted a trade. "What's yours?"

For once she did not look at him angrily, or try to distract him, or wiggle out of his grasp. Instead, her expression contained a hint of sadness.

"Brienne," she said so quietly he could barely hear her. "Brienne Tarth."

In spite of his instincts to mock and joke, Jaime's voice remained soft as he stated the truth. "I do believe that Brienne is a girl's name."

A rosy colour came to her cheeks when she nodded at him stiffly.

"Why did you keep it a secret for so long?" he asked. Fear? Self-hatred? Shame? Jaime had wanted his own name back so much that he did not understand why she so willingly forsook her own.

Brienne sighed, looking down at her hands. "Because as Miss Brienne Tarth I am trapped with my governess and guardian with nothing to do but sew and paint and simper. As Mr Daniel Flint... I am free."

It was such a pure wish, so simply expressed, that Jaime felt compelled to touch her. Lifting his hand, Jaime put his fingers under her chin to tilt her face to look at him. Her blushing only became more intense.

"Free to do what?"

"What I like," she said. "Men are free to do what they like."

Jaime hated to disappoint her, because he knew it wasn't true. Everyone was trapped in the same stifling boxes society deemed they should occupy. Not wanting to ruin her innocent dreams, he tried a light joke. "What? Like coming to secret boxing classes with me in a pub cellar?"

For some reason, that only made her look even more sad. "Well... I suppose that's over."

Now it was Jaime's turn to be confused. "Why?"

"Because I am a woman. Men would not bother training a woman to box."

He wanted to say that he had known she was a woman from the moment they met and yet continued to train her, but instead he decided to be tender because he could tell she needed comforting words. "_I _would not stop training you."

She looked genuinely surprised at that statement. "Why not?"

The moonlight catching in her eyes almost hid her amazement, so it only then became clear to Jaime that Miss Brienne Tarth really did not know. He had to tell her, but he was sure he was not capable of it in mere words. So, he chose to say it a different way. Moving his hand from her chin, Jaime put it on her cheek before standing up on his tiptoes to kiss her. It was gentle, delicate, and chaste, how Jaime assumed one was meant to kiss a lady. When he pulled back, Miss Brienne Tarth's eyes were wide with shock. It made him smile.

"Because there are no men like me. Only me."

Jaime had expected her to huff, or say something rude, or accuse him of besmirching her honour. Instead, for the first time in his professional career, Jaime was wrongfooted by his opponent. The crash of her lips on his and the knot of her arms around his neck felt more like a punch and a boxing hold than anything else, but after a few shocked seconds had passed, Jaime decided to do what he always did.

He rolled with the punches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever... I LOVE comments and kudos. I really enjoy knowing how I am doing :)
> 
> Next chapter... Jaime makes a pact with Pia...


	8. Jaime IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime gets used to life with Brave Danny Flint...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late... I've been ill the last couple of days and just unable to write. I'm better now though, so I got this bad boy finished! I hope you enjoy :)

Jaime spent his days thinking about Brave Danny Flint herself, Miss Brienne Tarth; his Saturdays excitedly waiting for her; in the evening, boxing; theoretical punches; holds; the rules of the game. She called him a pig; she grabbed him by the shoulders. Kissed him. And kissed him. And kissed him.

Not that Jaime was complaining. He liked this new game, never being able to tell if the frisson in the air is to do with fighting or something else. After they finished their sessions, they would stop for a drink upstairs at the bar while Pod chatted to the barmaids. Jaime would buy Miss Brienne Tarth a drink and then go and sit with her at one of the tables in the corner, hiding in a shadow. Even though he thought there was nothing wrong with what they are doing, he suspected Miss Brienne Tarth might need some persuading, so he agreed that they should only pursue it - whatever _it _was - in the darkness.

Miss Brienne Tarth was picking with the hem of her jacket as she said, "so, I have this _friend_..."

"Friend?" chuckled Jaime, "are you talking about yourself?"

She looked at him crossly. "No. I'm talking about a real life friend."

He waved his hand at her disbelievingly. "Go on then. Tell me about this _friend._"

"She's married..."

"You're _married?_" Jaime answered, his mouth dropping open in shock. "Why didn't you tell me? Why...?"

Miss Brienne Tarth whacked him that time, almost making him fall out his chair, and it was so forceful he could sense some real feeling behind it. "I am not married. It is my real friend, Mrs Bolton. She lives in London with her husband - a cruel, abominable, awful sort of man - and she's unhappy."

"Say _abominable _again," he demanded.

"Why?"

"It's a great word and you say it so well."

She scowled at him. "I am trying to tell you something."

"Say _abominable _again and then I will listen to your story."

Miss Brienne Tarth sighed. "Abominable."

"Good," Jaime grinned, reaching for her hand under the table. "Now you can continue with your story." To his immense relief, she did not flinch away.

Shaking her head while giving him an expression which he hoped was on the edge of a smile, Miss Brienne Tarth says, "Sansa lives with her husband, Mr Bolton, and he is an awful man. Cruel. Heartless. Vindictive. He does not let her have any friends and pushes the law to its absolute limit."

Jaime furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

Miss Brienne Tarth looked a little sad as she said, "it is legal for a husband to beat his wife with a rod no thicker than his thumb. Ramsay claims he has thick thumbs."

A coldness journeyed up Jaime's spine at that comment. Mr Ramsay Bolton sounded much like Mr Vargo Hoat - cruel for the sake of being cruel - and for one horrible second Jaime wondered whether Vargo treated Cersei so abominably, just like he did Pia. "That is terrible," Jaime said. Miss Tarth squeezed his fingers in response.

"I want to do all I can to help her." At her sincere expression, Jaime felt tingly and warm. Brave Danny Flint was too good for this world.

"How do you intend to help her?" he asked, his fingers still locked with hers. To the people around them, Jaime knew that he and Mr Daniel Flint just looked like two business associates. In truth, he knew they were the Kingslayer and his wench. He enjoyed the fact they had a secret owned by them alone.

At his question, Miss Brienne Tarth looked him straight with her blue eyes and he marvelled at how much kindness shone from them. "I am learning to box and selling dead bodies to a slightly shifty doctor, so one day she'll have money to escape. Everything I do, I do for her. I promised her I would... and I cannot forsake that vow."

Jaime could not help but think that Miss Brienne Tarth was a miraculous wonder in a world that often insisted on cruelty and conformity. She _was _a lady, but one who was determined to be anything other than what society wanted her to be. Where men were cruel, she offered a shield and a cloak to keep others covered from the rain. When he was with her, he felt safe.

"I'll help," Jaime smiled, edging closer to her, "any way I can."

She bit her lip, like she always did when she wanted to say something slighting risqué. "In what way?"

"Whatever way you want," he grinned.

Miss Brienne Tarth leant forward, as if she was going to kiss him, before saying, "you could help me with something."

"What?" he purred.

"I have this aching need..."

"Oh, I can help with aching needs."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "I have an aching, overwhelming need..."

"Yes?"

"To sell more dead bodies to Doctor Qyburn. Do you know anyone who will suit?"

Jaime laughed at that, even while he stared at her lips, wanting to kiss her so badly. "Wench, you know how to toy with my heart."

Miss Brienne Tarth beamed at him, and it was a smile of a woman who was never going to be a well behaved young lady. Knowing what she was, Brave Danny Flint pulled his hand under the table then tilted her head, pointing him towards the door. While he watched her, momentarily confused, she got to her feet, abandoning her drink, before crossing the room. He could only follow. Outside, he found her hiding in the shadows in a small alley between the pub and the stables. Grinning, Jaime let her push him back against the wall and kiss him like they were running out of time. She held him in place with her body, dragging her hands through his hair, kissing him as boldly as if they were husband and wife in the secrecy of their own room. When she let him come up for air, Brave Danny Flint did not stop pinning him against the wall, and it made Jaime smile.

"I want to see you, Miss Brienne Tarth."

Her expression darkened. "You are seeing me. Right here."

"No," he purred, rubbing his nose against hers. "I want to see you as _Miss Brienne Tarth_; in the bonnet and the dress and the corset, everything that society deems you should wear as a proper young lady."

She loosened her grip on him, wearing an expression that approached disappointment. "No you don't. As my governess has repeatedly told me, it is not a pretty sight."

Jaime wondered whether Miss Brienne Tarth's governess had ever been kicked in the head by a horse. "All the same, I want to see it."

His request evidently sat uncomfortably with her, as her face twisted in confusion. "Why?" she asked perplexedly.

"Because," Jaime smirked, "I want to free you from your constraints."

Brave Danny Flint blushed beautifully, even as she slammed him against the wall and smashed her lips against his. Jaime was lost for a few moments - in her, in him, in their togetherness - but he was pulled back to reality when she broke the kiss.

"No thanks. I can free myself."

* * *

Waiting for a whole week to see Miss Brienne Tarth was hard, but Jaime found other things to distract him. Apart from his work as a carter, there was also Pia. After that night with Mr Hoat, Jaime had discovered that she had no friends, no family, and was all alone in the world. It seemed monstrously unfair that someone should be so abandoned as consumption slowly took hold of her body, so Jaime made sure he visited.

_It's what I would hope someone would do for me, if I knew my time was up, _he thought.

Pia's eyes would widen in joy when he came to see her in her dingy rented room. Initially, Jaime was unsure if it was for himself or for the dram of rum or a small piece of sugar he often brought to keep her sweet. He would make sure her fire was stoked, her room was tidy, and her bed was made. Jaime knew she had clients who would lie in this room, taking from her, but he did not do it for them. He did it for _her, _because some people just could not free themselves.

"Why are you doing this?" Pia asked one day, when he brought her a gingerbread man.

Jaime shrugged. "I just want to, I guess."

Pia smiled at him. "Well, thank you, Mr Lannister. It is most Christian of you."

Jaime did not think himself _most Christian, _not when he had killed a man and spent most Saturday nights pinning the cross-dressing Miss Tarth up against the wall at _The Sellsword, _but he took the complement anyway. "Thank you," he said uneasily, crossing the room to get a broom so he could sweep away some dirt by the door.

"If there is anything I can ever do," she said, her eyes burning brightly even though the rest of her seemed so weak and pale, "anything to make your life even the tiniest bit easier, in the way you have for me, please let me know."

"Of course," he replied, not quite looking at her. Focusing on the sweeping, he did not hear her cross the room. Jaime only noticed how close she was when she put a cold hand on his shoulder.

"Promise me," Pia said as he turned to look at her. There was such devotion in her eyes that Jaime could not say no.

"I will," Jaime vowed. Few people had ever shown her kindness and now it seemed she searched for it in him. Jaime would not turn her away. At his acquiescence, Pia smiled at him, like the innocent child trapped in a woman's body she was. It was a fleeting moment, however, as then the darkness drew in as she was overtaken by her hacking cough.

This time, there were even more flecks of blood on her handkerchief.

* * *

After saying goodnight to Pia, Jaime returned home, dreaming of dinner and sleep. He needed some warmth considering the uneasy coldness now lodged in his heart. Visiting Pia often made him sad; it reminded him that his time was finite, and one day there would be an illness, a dagger, or a noose waiting for him, to catch him in the night unawares.

Something told Jaime it would not be old age.

Returning to the house, he found Tyrion propped up on a seat next to the fire, swigging from a bottle of gin. Jaime instantly knew he would not get his wish of an early night, not when his brother was fired up on drink.

"Ah, brother," Tyrion smiled when Jaime entered the room, "I've been wondering where you were. Cersei is out entertaining, so my mind was naturally occupied by thoughts of you."

"You need to get yourself a woman," teased Jaime, sitting down in the seat next to Tyrion, momentarily forgetting his determination to go to bed, "thinking on me is just sad." Nevertheless, Jaime wondered whether Miss Brienne Tarth was now in her own bed, dreaming of him.

Looking pleased with himself - probably because he was a little tipsy - Tyrion handed Jaime his gin, which he accepted gratefully. "I did not wonder on it very long, because I assumed you were probably out with that gentleman lady friend of yours."

Jaime took a sip of the gin, trying to hide the fact that he was blushing. How did Tyrion know about Brienne? They had tried to keep things so secret, and Tyrion rarely went to _The Sellsword. _He hoped drunk Tyrion was just mangling his words but, even so, to defend himself Jaime said, "I don't know what you are talking about."

"Really?" smirked Tyrion, "because this letter we received today suggests otherwise."

A knot appeared in Jaime's stomach. "What letter?"

Tyrion pulled an open envelope with a letter inside out of his waistcoat pocket, holding it out in front of him. Jaime gave it a cursory glance. He could see there was writing on the front, but he could not tell what it said; although he had gone to a local dame school, written words had always danced before Jaime's eyes, reluctant to be read. It was for that reason that Jaime had felt no qualms in quitting school to find a job when their mother had died. It was more important that Tyrion knew his letters, after all.

"You know I don't have a shitting clue what that says," groaned Jaime, waving his arm dismissively, "you read it to me."

Tyrion rolled his eyes, but nevertheless reopened the letter and flourished the sheet of paper in front of him, clearing his throat. "Dear Mr Lannister, I write offering you the heartiest congratulations on developing a new bond of friendship with such a distinguished gentleman lady as Mr Daniel Flint."

Jaime's stomach dropped like a stone in a still pool. Tyrion - and the letter writer - evidently knew what they were talking about.

"Mr Flint is undoubtedly a _singular _sort of fellow, given that she is a woman," Tyrion continued, "and you must be most keen on keeping her reputation above reproach. Nobody wishes to be known as the _Kingslayer's Whore, _after all_. _I will do my utmost to help you, of course, because the distinguished lady deserves better than her name being traduced. Or is that gentleman? I will be watching you both with a careful eye. Signed, V.H."

Jaime snatched the paper from Tyrion, trying to make sense of the words, even as they danced away from him. "When did this arrive?"

Tyrion was giggling. He was so drunk on gin that he clearly did not recognise this letter as the threat it was. "Have you got yourself a cross dressing whore, Jaime?" chuckled Tyrion, "my, my, I thought that was much more to my taste."

Jaime barely heard his brother's joke as two letters were going around and around his head.

_V.H._

Mr Vargo Hoat knew about Brienne, knew about _Jaime _and Brienne. There would be hell to pay.

_I should never have hit him, _Jaime thought. _Not when he is so powerful, not when he rules these slums. He is like Aerys reborn._

Tyrion suddenly looked concerned when Jaime did not answer him. "Are you well? You've gone white as a sheet."

Jaime got to his feet and took a few steps towards the fire. He would not let his fear rule him, would not let Hoat own him, not while he was in his own house at least. Consequently, he threw the letter into the flames, enjoying a second of satisfaction watching Mr Hoat's hand burn.

"Yes, I am fine," he said, turning back to Tyrion before taking a swig of gin. "That letter is just full of lies."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, I love comments and kudos, so please consider leaving some :)
> 
> Historical fact - it really was legal for a man to beat his wife with a stick no thicker than his thumb :S
> 
> Next chapter... Brienne finds it increasingly difficult to balance life as Mr Flint and as a proper young lady...


	9. Brienne V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Jaime decide to be a lady and a gentleman...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for coming back for this chapter. If you enjoy it... please consider leaving comments and kudos.
> 
> Now, for this one. PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS. They are there for a reason :)

A few weeks later, one Saturday evening when Brienne came to train with Jaime in the cellar of _The Sellsword_, he did not even pretend they were here for boxing. Once he had her alone, he pinned her against the wall with all his weight and kissed her senselessly, barely giving her time to breathe. She liked it when he kissed her this way, like she was a fighter, like she was his equal, and not some simpering maiden. Locking her wrists above her head, Jaime's fingers dug into her soft skin in his desperation to be close to her, so much so that Brienne could feel the bruises forming, just as she could taste the blood from kissing too hard.

Given his passionate approach, when Brienne pushed him off her, she was surprised to find his cheeks were wet.

"What's the matter?" she asked, stunned. She had never seen Jaime like this - broken or breaking - and she had not realised how much it would hurt her to see him in such a state.

"I've got another body," he said huskily, his words catching on his tears.

Brienne felt happy, it meant more money, after all, but her mood was dampened by the fact she had to wipe away his tears. "Great. Do we have to dig him up? Where is he buried?"

Jaime shook his head even as she cupped his face. "It's not a he... and she's not buried anywhere."

Brienne's brows furrowed in confusion. "Is this a little like Mr Pycelle?"

"A little," sniffed Jaime. At that, he crossed the room to put his shirt back on; Brienne wondered whether he was trying to show respect for the dead. "Her name was Pia."

Hours later, when Brienne helped Jaime load Pia's body into a barrel to take to Doctor Qyburn, they did so with great care. Jaime had told her Pia's story; how she was a prostitute working for an awful pimp by the name of Vargo Hoat - a man whose cruelty stretched beyond words - and that she had spent her last few weeks searching the dark streets of the slums for kindness even as consumption stalked her. Brienne watched as Jaime touched the dead girl with care, a gentleness that she had only seen him save for her before.

Once they had handed Pia's corpse over to Doctor Qyburn and were standing in a dark corner of Cowgate, Jaime turned to look into Brienne's eyes and said, "you know, her last words were that she loved me." From someone more refined, those words would have perhaps sounded like poetry.

"That's nice," said Brienne mildly. She had not expected to feel a twist of jealousy towards a dead prostitute, so she surprised herself when that was her chief reaction to Jaime's declaration. 

He shook his head. "No, it's not."

"Why?"

"Because weeks ago she told me that if there was anything she could do to make my life easier that she would do it... and I took that to mean handing her body over to Qyburn." For the first time since they started this business, Jaime Lannister looked guilty about it.

"And you feel... burdened by that?" Brienne asked.

He snapped his head round. "What?"

"Guilty," she specified. "Do you feel guilty about handing her over to Qyburn?"

Jaime looked away from her and the beauty of the starry night to gaze at his own feet. "No. She's dead. She doesn't need her body now."

"You are quite right," said Brienne, taking his hand in her. Part of her wanted to comfort him, but the other part - louder, more selfish - wanted to just keep hold of him for a moment, entirely to herself, where the ghost of Pia could not haunt them. "But then... if it is not that... what do you feel guilty for?"

Jaime lifted his face to her, the evening light catching in his eyes. "What makes you think I feel guilty?"

"It is writ all over your face."

At her easy disarming of him, Jaime sighed and Brienne thought it was the type of heavy, laden sigh that old men made when they had lived a long life. "I feel guilty because... I did not say it back. It would have been _polite _to say it back."

"Say what?"

"That I loved her," he said, squeezing Brienne's fingers gently.

She let out a bark of laughter at that. "No offence, but you are no gentleman, Jaime Lannister. There's no need for you to be polite, especially if telling her would be a lie."

"It _is _a lie," he replied resolutely.

The knot that had been unknowingly tightening in Brienne's stomach loosened somewhat. "Good."

"Good?" he asked, his eyes suddenly bright and quizzical. "What do you mean good?"

_It_ _is good that you do not love her, _Brienne thought.

"It is good that you did not feel the need to lie."

He smirked at her. "Why do you care if I lie about my feelings for Pia or not?"

Brienne tried to put on the fearless mask she often wore to keep out the world, but Jaime was always relentlessly disarming. "I care about your immortal soul."

Then it was his turn to laugh. "No you don't, or you would not be joining me in selling dead bodies. Why are you concerned about me lying?"

"I am not!" she insisted.

"Well, I am concerned that you are lying right now, because you have gone that wonderful red colour you wear so well." That only made her blush harder, even as he drew closer. "Young ladies should not lie."

"How many times? I am not a young lady!" she huffed.

"And I am not a gentleman," said Jaime, "but maybe... just once... we should be a lady and a gentleman and do what they would do. We should tell the truth."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What do you mean, sir?"

Drawing her hand towards him, he lifted it so he could kiss it with utmost reverence, as a gentleman would kiss a lady. "We should be honest about how we feel."

His eyes were so intent on her that Brienne's heart hammered loudly, trying to break free of her ribcage. "How we feel...?"

"I could not lie to Pia," admitted Jaime, "because I can only offer my love to Brave Danny Flint. I do not know if it would be accepted, but even so, I offer it all the same."

Brienne's mouth dropped open. For someone who was born in the slums, Jaime Lannister could play the part of the gentleman with elegance and panache that would be hard matched by the bona fide article. Her hand was warmed by the way he cupped it between his palms, so Brienne tried to mirror him, placing her free hand on top of his. "It would perhaps be accepted, if the offer was made in the right way..."

"Let me make the offer then," he said sincerely. "We should go out for dinner together as a real gentleman and a lady. I know a pleasant hotel on the outskirts of the city... I could arrange it. And then we could talk about how we feel, _tell _each other how we feel."

Brienne's cheeks flushed. "I would like that. It's just..."

"What?" Jaime gazed at her as if all problems were only the result of her limited imagination, not of reality itself.

She took a deep breath before saying, "I do not make a very convincing lady."

Jaime smirked at her. "Who said anything about who would be the lady and who the gentleman?"

His gentle teasing was too much, so she leant close to kiss him. He reciprocated in seconds, and the passion and heat behind it told Brienne that maybe they did not need to discuss how they felt in words.

All the same, perhaps it would be nice.

* * *

The dark bruise that Jaime left on Miss Brienne Tarth's neck from his amorous attentions was spotted by Mrs Roelle two days later.

"How on earth did you get that? Lady Catelyn will be most displeased!"

Brienne internally kicked herself that she had not been able to better hide it with powder. "When I went for a walk yesterday with Miss Tyrell, a stone was thrown up by a passing carriage and it hit me. You can ask her if you want."

Mrs Roelle had looked suspicious, but she had not asked anymore questions. Instead, she had simply upped her surveillance on her young ward, which made it quite difficult for Brienne to sneak out come Saturday. Nevertheless, Brave Danny Flint did manage it, because in all her wildest dreams, her governess could never have countenanced that going bare-knuckle boxing with a handsome fighter was how Miss Brienne Tarth chose to spend her Saturday nights.

Not that this Saturday night was the same as usual, however. She and Jaime had called off their normal session because Jaime had a fight scheduled in _The Sellsword's_garden with a renowned fighter from out of town; Oberyn "The Red Viper" Martell. Given how well she knew Jaime as a fighter (and as a man, a friend, a lover), Brienne was looking forward to cheering him on.

Consequently, on that Saturday night she found herself sitting in the pub garden cheering for Jaime in his fight against Oberyn. All things considered, it was a close thing, but that was because Brienne knew that Jaime had more than money in this fight; Oberyn's sister, Elia, had been Aerys Targaryen's daughter-in-law, so it was a bit of a grudge match. Therefore, it had not been surprising that neither fighter was willing to give up easily, and it went to seven rounds before Oberyn could not come to scratch in time and Jaime was declared the winner.

Given the number of well-wishers who were waiting for Jaime after the fight, Brienne only had a few precious seconds in which to congratulate him before he was whisked away. "Congratulations, Kingslayer," she said jovially. Even though that word now felt like poison on her tongue, that was what everyone called him when they were talking to Jaime Lannister the boxer. In that context, he did not mind it from her.

He smiled at her. "Thank you, Mr Flint. Perhaps you wish to discuss tactics with me next time. How about next Saturday at the Pennytree Inn for dinner? And why don't you bring your friend, Miss Tarth, is it? Such a fine lady would make wonderful company."

Brienne blushed at the complement. "And why don't you invite your gentleman friend, Mr Lannister? Miss Tarth wishes to make his acquaintance. Perhaps they can then talk about gentler things than boxing."

Jaime gave her a warm gaze that was only for her. "That would be perfect, Mr Flint, I will see you then."

Brienne wanted to kiss him goodbye, but she knew he had to deal with the bookmakers and the gamblers and his fans, so instead she gave him a nod of the head before making her way off to the stables. Pod was still talking to a barmaid inside the pub, so she decided to ready the horses herself. It would be nice to have a moment's peace, alone apart from her thoughts of Jaime and the Pennytree Inn, after all.

Inside the stables, it was very quiet apart from the gentle whinnies of the horses. Approaching her own mare, Brienne stroked her to calm her before beginning to fiddle around with the harness. There was little light in the room, so Brienne had to make do with moonlight and shadow, which meant it took longer to prepare her horse than usual. She had just began to saddle her when she heard a voice.

"Are you Mr Flint?"

Turning around, Brienne was surprised to see a large group of men by the doorway of the stables, led by the man who had spoken. Apart from his lisp, his only distinguishing features were that he was tall and gaunt, with a horrible greasy looking goatee. Brienne suddenly felt very uneasy.

"Yes, I am he. What do you want?"

The man smiled. "Not much. We just heard the Kingslayer had a new bitch and that she liked to dress up as a man."

Brienne's blood went cold. Very, very, cold. Drawing herself up to her full height, she gave them a derisive laugh, thinking it was her best form of defence. "I do not know what you are talking about. I am Mr Daniel Flint of..."

"Friar's Wynd," interjected the man. "Yes I know. I also happen to know that you are a woman."

"I am not!" Brienne tried to insist, but the second she tried to show a little bit of strength the men entered further into the stable, blocking the exit to her. Sensing her fear, their lisping leader sneered at her and stepped forward, his eyes shining with a horrible, vindictive pleasure.

"Oh you are, and you are going to show us."

Brienne started blinking furiously, trying to awaken from this horrible dream. "Show you what?"

"I want to see the Kingslayer's Whore's cunt," he smiled nastily, "and once I have, you are going to tell him that Mr Vargo Hoat sends his regards."

_Mr Vargo Hoat, _thought Brienne, falling into a suddenly panic. _Pia's pimp. A man whose cruelty could not be related in words._

A shard of ice shot down Brienne's spine at his words, as she flicked her eyes between Mr Hoat and every one of his men. To horror, she could instantly tell they were united in the same purpose; to see her honour as a woman totally ruined, and all for some mysterious grudge against Jaime.

As the men began to move towards her, Brienne knew there was only one thing for it. Getting into the orthodox stance, she fixed Mr Hoat with a ferocious look.

"You'll have to take it," she spat, "but I warn you, I fight as well as any man."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... it has got a little bit dark up in here. As ever, please leave comments and kudos - I love to know how I'm doing. This story is such a change from the others in this series that it makes me a better writer to hear what you think.
> 
> Next chapter... Miss Brienne Tarth has to deal with the attack on Mr Daniel Flint...


	10. Brienne VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Brienne Tarth deals with the consequences of the attack on Mr Daniel Flint...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I didn't want to keep you on that cliffhanger for too long, so here is the next chapter. Once again, the archive warnings are there for a reason!

Jab. Jab. Jab. Uppercut. Hook. Jab. Hook. Hook. Cross. Jab. Jab. Jab. Uppercut. Jab. Jab. Hook. Cross. Jab. Jab. Jab. Fall. Kick. Scream. Jab. Jab. Cry. Hands. Tearing. Jab. Kick. Kick. Scream.

Brienne did her best, she put up a valiant fight - with punches, kicks, and desperate clawing - but in the end, there were too many of them, too many men intent on seeing her humiliated and reduced. They pulled at her clothes, tearing the fabric, and grasped at her in places only she had ever touched. She screamed, calling for help, but her attempt was only rewarded with a dirty hand over her mouth, silencing her.

In the end, rather than witness her defeat, she chose to disappear away inside.

Miss Brienne Tarth only resurfaced when Pod entered the stable with a couple of his drinking buddies, and it was enough to scare away the more frit of Mr Hoat's men, and then the threat of a fight against someone other than an unarmed woman made the braver ones back down. But Brienne barely heard. She was too paralysed by shock.

"Miss Tarth," came Pod's shocked voice from somewhere, "did they hurt you?"

"Yes," she said honestly, feeling violated and in pain, even though she knew if Pod had not arrived it could have been much, much worse. "Take me home. I want to go home."

_Home... Jaime... take me to Jaime... I want Jaime..._

However, she was took trapped in her dazed, terrified silence to vocalise what she truly meant by _home._

Sometime later, Pod and Miss Tarth arrived back at Winterfell House, with its gloomy towers and austere exterior. The building was still dark, and the occupants asleep, which Brienne did not even have the energy to feel relieved about. She only felt a sense of dread when she realised that she would have to explain herself, especially considering she was covered in bruises and shame.

Looking up at her window, Pod opened and closed his mouth several times, as if searching for the words to ask if she would be alright scooting back up the drainpipe as she normally did, especially considering _what had happened. _Before he could do so, however, Brienne raised a hand to silence him. She did not want to talk about it. All she wanted to do was curl up in some warm oblivion and not think or feel, become totally detached from this pain-riddled body that had always been a cage. Another part of her only wanted Jaime's arms around her, to feel his warmth against her skin.

"What are you going to tell them?" asked Pod tentatively. Brienne knew he was talking about telling Lady Catelyn and Mrs Roelle about the attack, about the attempted rape, but quite bizarrely she had become quite fixated on her unpolished shoes, as if the simple disorientation caused by them being less than perfect would distract from the darkness pressing in around her.

"I will tell them I tripped."

* * *

The morning after, Brienne was hidden under a pile of blankets on her bed claiming she was ill, so she did not have to go to church with the household. In reality, it was just the first part of her plan in explaining away her bruises.

"The Lord does not care if you have a cold," Mrs Roelle snapped when she first marched into her charge's bedroom, trying to pull the covers off her.

"It is not a _cold,_" Brienne insisted, flinching away from her governess while holding onto her blankets tight. The last thing she wanted at that precise moment was to be touched.

Eventually, Mrs Roelle let out a dramatic sigh. "Fine, but if you feel better, get yourself up and make yourself _useful. _The Lord does not like idle hands."

It was an order she obeyed, as Brienne was out of her bed the moment she saw Mrs Roelle and Lady Catelyn ride off in their pink carriage with the broken widow. Getting changed into a dress she might wear for riding, she settled on her plan. Brienne would claim she had gone out walking to deliver a letter to the post office for Sansa, but on her way there she had been pounced on by a gang of ruffians after her purse. It was better than telling the truth.

Opening the window in her room, she went to sit down at her writing desk, preparing the letter to Sansa that would prove her story. However, she found she was distracted by the sound of distant singing coming from the nearby church.

_Jesu, joy of man's desiring,_

_Holy wisdom, love most bright;_

_Drawn by Thee, our souls aspiring_

_Soar to uncreated light._

It inspired her to write something else instead, even though she found it agonising, awful, and stumbled over her words even with a quill in her hand.

_My dearest Jaime,_

_I miss you and long to see you. The part of me that has always been a silly girl desires nothing more than to be with you at the Pennytree Inn next Saturday and spend a few short hours as just a man and woman, together. You say it matters not who is the gentleman and who the lady, but I know it does, for I have never been a lady. I know that to be the case because the truth had to be searched for with rough hands and harsh words. They called me a beast as they sought my femininity, and the Kingslayer's Whore when they were at their most spiteful. I had not expected kindness the first time I was touched by a man in that way - my governess, Mrs Roelle, told me to expect indifference - but I had not anticipated such hatred._

_Therefore, I think it is best we meet no more, because how can we be what we were to one another when every touch will be an echo of Mr Hoat's cruel hands?_

_Forever yours,_

_Brave Danny Flint_

By the time she finished writing, she heard of the click of the front lock, heralding the return of the household from church. Once she had hidden the letter with Mr Daniel Flint's torn clothes under a loose floorboard next to her bed, she went downstairs and put on her best face, telling her guardian and governess the story of the fictitious ruffians who beat her and stole her purse.

Once Brienne's tale was over, Mrs Roelle scolded her for leaving the house without a chaperone, especially when she had been claiming that she was not well. Her governess' words only succeeded in making Brienne feel impossibly small, and she shrunk away from her, not wanting to be touched by her furious words or her rough, authoritarian hands.

But then something strange happened. Ever since the tragedy involving the Stark children, Brienne had found Lady Catelyn as cold as the north wind and had expected as little love from her as Mrs Roelle. However, the words that came out of her guardian's mouth were the most reassuring thing she had heard since Mr Hoat's grasping hands had pushed her thighs apart.

"Do not worry, my child. I will see the wrongdoers hanged."

There was a gleam of promise in her slate-blank eyes.

* * *

In the place of her unsent refusal to Jaime, that week, two letters came for Brienne. The first was from Sansa. Normally, Brienne would have jumped at the chance at hearing news, but that Tuesday she was a little reticent. Ever since she had become Mrs Bolton, Sansa's life had always been something that Brienne pitied, but never fully understood. It was an abstract darkness. Now, after having Mr Hoat's hands all over her, it dawned on Brienne with vivid horror. Feeling as if she knew a little of what Sansa must have been going through ever since she became a married woman, Brienne was more determined than ever to save her from her fate. Even so, she could not quite bring herself to read her letter, not now it touched so close to her own tragedies.

The second was addressed to her in an unfamiliar hand and delivered on Thursday evening by a snot-nosed young urchin who threw pebbles at her window to get her attention. Consequently, Brienne made sure she opened it in the privacy of her bedroom away from prying eyes.

_Dear Miss Tarth,_

_Your presence is cordially requested this coming Saturday evening at seven o'clock at the Pennytree Inn, Dalkeith. My brother, Mr J. Lannister most heartily desires your company and would be honoured if you accepted his offer, of both his invite and his heart._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Mr T. Lannister_

The paper was clean, and he had clearly gone to the expense of paying for a red candle to seal the letter. Jaime was illiterate, so had evidently had to get his brother Tyrion to write his love letter for him. The lengths he had gone to make this special for her, to make this a note from a gentleman to his lady love, broke her heart, especially as she knew she had already committed her own refusal to paper.

For the whole of Friday she was plagued by it; the thought of Jaime touching her, his hands skirting across the bruises Mr Hoat and his men had caused. Could she ever feel tenderness or comfort in his caress again? Or would she forever hear Hoat's lisping mockery that had reduced her to nothing but Jaime's strange freak who had to be poked and prodded until she revealed the truth hidden beneath her clothes?

On Friday evening, she went out to post her own letter to Jaime. She owed him an explanation at least. Then, once he understood, they could retreat into their old lives, pretending _they _in all their complex forms had never happened. Brienne would never have to see him again, or feel the terrible, exquisite agony of his hands on her body. She was just about to slip the envelope into the post box when she had a heavy, horrifying thought.

_If I unveil my heart to him on paper, he will not be able to read it without a middle man._

_He does not merit that cruelty, not when he has been so kind to me._

_Doesn't he deserve my words from my own mouth?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that angst fest. If you did (or even if you didn't), please consider leaving a comment or kudos :)
> 
> The music that Brienne hears coming from the church is "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring", the English translation of a cantata by J.S. Bach.
> 
> Next chapter... Brienne and Jaime meet face to face for their dinner at the Pennytree Inn...


	11. Jaime V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne go for dinner...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, sorry this one is late! I wanted to make sure it was just right! As ever, I love comments and kudos <3

The _Pennytree Inn _near Dalkeith was the most romantic place Jaime could think of taking Miss Brienne Tarth, at least on his budget. After he had sent her the letter through his brother Tyrion, part of him had been waiting for a reply written in her beautiful maiden's hand, indicating her acceptance of his suit. It would have been fitting, he thought, if they were both going to lose themselves in the fantasy of playing at being a gentleman and his lady for one night.

Buoyed with excitement, Jaime arrived at the inn at six o'clock in his Sunday best and checked in as Mr Flint. The innkeeper, a sceptical looking man called Mr Meribald, wrote his name in the guestbook as Jaime said, "my wife will be along soon."

"Do you want your bedroom upgraded then?" the innkeeper asked. "Married couples can stay in the double room. We call it the _Quiet Isle_, because it is so high up in the building that you cannot hear the noise of the revellers below. It is your own island of silence. For you and your lady wife, it is free tonight, if you wish, for no extra cost."

_My lady wife, _thought Jaime pensively. _What a beautiful dream._

"I will take it, sir," he agreed, as Mr Meribald made the correction in the book. It was not that Jaime thought Brienne would want to join him upstairs - though part of him desperately hoped she would - it was just that he wanted to make the most of this experience. If he could have a night in a goose feather bed, why shouldn't he enjoy it?

Jaime waited for Miss Brienne Tarth in the dining room. He had ordered a bottle of wine from the innkeeper for them to share when she arrived but held back on dinner. Secretly, he hoped she might pick for him; he thought she probably had better taste.

When Mr Meribald brought a tall woman wearing a blue dress into the dining room, Jaime did not recognise her at first, because he was so used to Brave Danny Flint. It was only when she sat down opposite him at the table and he looked up at her and gazed into her big blue eyes that he _saw _her through her layers of clothing. His throat went dry.

"My lady," he whispered, barely able to get his words out. "You look so beautiful."

As she took the bonnet off her head, Brienne's hair cascaded around her shoulders. Jaime had only ever seen it tied up, or hidden underneath a hat, so to see it like this in all its glory...

"Please do not mock me," she said, looking down at her hands. She wore a pair of white gloves that she refused to take off, and a little jacket that had a high neck and long sleeves. Even though they were in Scotland - and the weather was awful - he knew this get-up was excessive, especially considering the blazing fire Mr Meribald had set in the grate.

Jaime furrowed his brow. "I'm not mocking you. You look beautiful. Truly."

Still not looking at him, Miss Brienne Tarth picked up the bottle of wine and poured herself a glass before setting it back down. She remained silent, and Jaime found it unnerving. They had always talked like they boxed; quick, close, intimate. He was not used to this coldness.

"Is everything well?" he asked.

"Fine," she said bluntly, "but I am only going to have one drink and then I am going to go."

Jaime's heart fell. He had been looking forward to spending time with her all week, time that wasn't concerned with boxing or dead bodies in a space where they could just be a man and a woman. Was there anything wrong with wanting to be like a normal couple for more than ten seconds?

"Why?" he asked, his voice catching in his throat. "I thought we agreed that we were going to have dinner together?"

She took a tiny sip of her wine. "We did but... that was a bad idea."

Jaime was totally baffled about where this change of heart had come from, so he decided to take it gently. "Why do you think that?"

Perhaps it was his tender tone, but something finally inspired her to look up at him. Jaime had not expected to see such sadness in her blue eyes. "Because _we _are a bad idea and... I do not think it is wise we continue to do this."

Jaime had never let Brave Danny Flint try to punch him - mostly because he would have never been able to punch her back - but if she had, he imagined it would have felt something like that. Drawing a gulp of air into his lungs, Jaime asked, "why not? I do not really care if it is not wise. I enjoy your company. I think I might even..." _Love you. _He steadied himself."What does it matter if the world does not think we should be together? I do."

This time, she nearly drank half the glass of wine before she spoke. "It's not for that reason, you know I do not care about such things; status, money, respectability..."

"Then what is it?" Jaime reached out to touch her, but she flinched away. For the first time since she had arrived, he realised that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Previously, she had been so welcoming of his touch. "Brienne..."

A tear was spilling down her cheek before he knew what was happening. Her crying in their small sanctuary had not been what Jaime planned for this evening at all, so he lifted his hand to wipe her cheek, even as ice started to clutch at his heart. To his disappointment, Brienne did nothing to relieve him, as she just batted his hand away.

"Brienne..." he said again, his voice cracking.

"Please. Not here. Let me have my one drink and then I'll go, I promise. We do not ever have to see each other again."

"But I want to see you again," he gasped, the truth of the matter falling out of his mouth at her ability to make him reveal the most tender places inside of himself. "I don't want to be parted from you. I wanted tonight to be special, something that will bring us closer, not separate us. So if you don't like this we can stop and do something else. We could find a cellar and you could try punching me in the face."

He could tell that Brienne was trying to regain her normal stoicism but failing abominably against her tears and her compulsion to laugh at his poor joke. "It's not that... I just..."

"What?" he begged. "Please tell me."

She was paler than he had ever seen her. "Not here. It's too busy here..."

Not waiting a moment longer, Jaime lifted the bottle of wine from the table with one hand and beckoned to her with the other. "Come. I've rented a room for the night. We can talk there. It will be quiet."

* * *

Fittingly, Brienne remained silent in the room that Mr Meribald had dubbed the_Quiet Isle _as Jaime went around lighting candles. If she was so intent on breaking his heart, he at least wished to look on her face as she did so. Once he was done, Jaime went to sit on the edge of the bed, leaving enough room to perch next to him if she so wished. Brienne did not move, but just started at him with her big, blue eyes.

"Why don't you want me?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level. "Is it because I'm too poor for you, too old, too broken...?"

He swore he could see tears glistening in her eyes as she moved towards him, her hands outstretched. "No, of course not. This is nothing to do with you. It is about _me."_

Jaime clicked his tongue. "If you are going to tell me that you _don't feel like a proper lady _and that is why we cannot do this_, _then you can just be quiet because it is not true. I can feel how much of a woman you are when you kiss me, when you hold me down, when you..." Her eyes flashed with emotion. Jaime went to snap at her for that glance, but then he realised it was not made with anger but with terror. Although it was hard to believe, his Brave Danny Flint was scared, backing away from him like a wounded animal. The only thing he could offer her was gentleness.

"Brienne, please tell me what is wrong." Her tears returned once more, and he felt compelled to get to his feet and walk towards her, to hold her in his arms until she stopped crying, but when he made the move to do so she flinched away from him. 

"Please do not touch me," she begged, "I am scared of what I will feel..."

Jaime was now really lost. "What you will feel? You know what you will feel! We've touched a hundred times before. What is so different about it now?"

She clutched her hands to her chest, like she was the wronged maid in some tragic folk song, Brave Danny Flint perhaps. "I do not want it to feel tarnished."

"Tarnished?" asked Jaime. "Why would me touching you feel tarnished?"

"Because... because..." she stammered, trying to find the words. "Last Saturday at _The Sellsword... _Vargo Hoat and his men tried to discover if I was truly a woman."

Jaime's blood went as cold as ice. He remembered the threatening letter the man had sent, labelling Brienne a _singular sort of fellow_. At the time, he had been fearful of the threatening undertones, but he had brushed it aside as he had become so entangled with Brienne, so enthralled by their new feelings for one another. There had been no room for darkness.

He had been a fool.

A knot of fear tightened itself in his stomach. "Did he...?"

She shook her head. "No. Pod came to my rescue before he went that far, but he still attacked me... he still hurt me."

From the first time Jaime had met Miss Brienne Tarth, he had been impressed by how formidable she was. Yet, at that moment, he appreciated how her hard shell just hid something incredibly gentle. It made him want to hold her even more.

"Show me. Show me what he did."

Brienne looked up at him, her eyes still glistening, as she removed her gloves and then took her jacket off, revealing purple bruises all the way up her arms and across her shoulders. He knew Brienne was a fierce fighter, so that bastard Hoat must have brought many men to be able to do this to her. It sickened him that her first proper fight was an unfair one.

Brienne tensed when his fingers danced across a bruise on her collarbone, but once Jaime had made that initial bit of contact, she softened instantly. Clearly, Brienne did not think his touch had been tarnished by Hoat's greedy hands.

"Oh Brienne, how could he do this to you?" said Jaime, his voice breaking.

Sensing the fear still present in the ever gesture, Jaime was surprised when Brienne moved forward, as if to lean into his touch. "Because Mr Hoat is a cruel man."

"And is that why you do not wish to see me anymore?" asked Jaime, pained, "because you are scared that I am like him?"

Perhaps he showed the hurt in his face, because suddenly Brienne cupped his cheek with her hand and whispered, "not at all. It was just I was scared that _closeness _would be ruined for me, closeness with _you _would be destroyed by him."

Jaime suddenly became conscious of how near they were to a feathered bed. "Do you think it has been?"

"What?" she said, her cheeks going red.

"Do you think our closeness has been ruined?" he asked, scared to the depths of his soul.

Miss Brienne Tarth gave him a small smile, that was as sweet and innocent as the first flowers of spring. "No, perhaps it is not tarnished. Not if you are gentle."

Given how scared and nervous she was, Jaime made sure he _was_gentle when he kissed her, both on the lips and across her bruises. He tried to convey the tenderness he felt for her with soft touches, on her face, her neck, by running his fingers through her hair. As he did so, he felt Brienne relax into his arms. Once she gained the confidence to kiss him back, he did not push her to make it more passionate; at least, not until she took off his coat herself and her deft fingers began to pull at the buttons on his waistcoat. Permitting her to push him back towards the bed, laying her weight onto him, he let her take command in holding him, kissing him, touching him, and only let out a contented groan of agreement as she divested him of his clothes.

"Brienne," he murmured as her fingers went to the laces at the top of his breeches, "we do not have to do this if you... do not want it."

"Go gentle with me," she pleaded, "I need to you touch me in a good way, a kind way. I want you to own my body, not him."

Jaime sat up to kiss her, but when they broke apart, he took on an authoritative tone. "He does not own your body, and neither do I. You are yours alone. I do not wish to possess you, merely to lie with you... if you will have me."

Brienne gave him a grateful look, but no immediate answer. At least not in words. In that respect, Jaime thought it was as it had always been between him and her, a conversation expressed through the movement and union of their bodies, a dance to a song without lyrics. Once he was naked, Brienne followed not long after. It took some time for Jaime to remove the prison of lace and silk, to undo the chaining ribbons and reveal the shape that was entirely hers. Most men desired small bodies, petit features, and a slender waist in their women, but Jaime was as hard as a rock at a sight of her long legs, the constellation of freckles and the almost hardy, workaday nature of her form. To him, she was some sort of goddess of the wild.

Reaching the point of shared nakedness, Brienne took on the expression of a doe who had just spotter a hunter in the green darkness of the woods. "What do we do now?"

"Whatever we want to do," sighed Jaime, near breathless at the prospect of being with her in this way. "Whatever makes you feel like a woman, like _my _woman."

"I would like that," she breathed, blushing, the colour extending down to the top of her chest.

He continued to show her all the tenderness and gentleness he felt for her as he kissed her lips, her neck, her breasts, down the centre of her stomach, to the place he had dreamed of tasting her between her thighs. Brienne let out a shocked sigh and moaned his name - "Jaime" - when he began to use his tongue on her. She tasted so sweet that nothing would stop him from pursuing her release, especially not her loud protestation that this was not what gentlemen did to ladies.

Looking up at her, his face slick with her arousal, he smiled, "I thought you were not a lady?"

She let out a breath of amusement, "well... I suppose not."

"Shall I continue then?"

His teasing question was not given a response with words, but she did run her fingers through his hair and then directed his head _firmly _where she wanted him.

_I'm hers forever, _he thought distantly.

It was the sound Brienne made when she came in his mouth that finally diminished Jaime's desire to be gentle. It was so feral, so raw, so filthy, he knew he just wanted to bury himself inside her and fuck her until they were both consumed by bliss. At first, he was worried of the best way to convince her, but the expression Brienne wore when he crawled up her body to kiss her showed him that she had the same idea.

"Mr Flint," Brienne murmured mischievously, using the pseudonym he had signed into _The Pennytree Inn _with, "I want you inside me."

Jaime spent little time obeying her order, only becoming somewhat tentative when he lined up at her entrance, waiting for her assent. When it came in the form of an almost girlish grin, he slid inside her, but once again found himself apprehensive when she winced as he ripped through her maidenhead.

"Did I hurt you, my lady?" he asked, concerned, cupping her face with his hands.

"Only a little," she smiled, "it matters not. I want you to make me your woman, Jaime... make me yours."

At that, all pretence at gentleness was gone. He fucked her furiously, as he had wanted to do from the first time they trained together. Every time she had thrown him down, straddled him, pinned his arms above his head, he had fantasised about this moment. To his delight, Brienne was better than he imagined; loud and domineering, attempting to order him about, "faster... harder... _oh yes _just like that."

"Brienne," he growled, unable to keep his feelings contained, "oh, I've wanted you for so long." Although Jaime had been expecting their joint ascent to be the work of both of them, he was positively gleeful when she found the strength to flip him over, slam him on his back, and ride him for her pleasure. "Fuck me," he begged, his voice cracking, "please, oh my love... my lady."

He knew it was selfish, he knew it was stupid, but even so he was carried away by the feeling of lying beneath her, bending to her will, and so when he reached his peak, he could do nothing but empty himself inside her. Jaime felt a stab of guilt as he did so, but then Brienne moaned like a dying woman and clenched around him, and he let himself be washed away by the sheer bliss of being with her.

The tenderness returned once they had both come down from their high and Brienne laid down beside him, her eyes bright. "I loved the way you touched me," she breathed, resting her head on his chest.

Running his fingers through her hair, Jaime had a ringlet wrapped around his finger when he said, "I love _you, _Brienne."

They had circled around each other so long that he was not expecting the expression of sheer happiness that overcame her features as she gazed up at him. "I love you too."

It was his overwhelming love and affection for Brave Danny Flint that turned his mind to darker thoughts as Jaime held his love in his arms as she fell asleep. Naked in the evening light, Jaime could see her for everything she was; a warrior, a woman, and maybe one day his wife.

_I can dream, _he thought languorously.

When Brienne was fast asleep, he pulled a blanket across them both and held her tight, wanting her to find safety and warmth in his arms away from the storms of the world. It was that stab of protectiveness that drove him towards his darkest thought yet.

_And don't you worry my lady. I will do more than just kiss your wounds; I will avenge them._

_I will kill Vargo Hoat with my own hands if it makes you happy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope you enjoyed that :) I love to hear how I am doing, so please consider leave comments and kudos! It makes me a better writer!
> 
> Next chapter... Jaime goes to see Vargo Hoat...


	12. Jaime VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime goes to see Vargo Hoat...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this one was really TOUGH to write, and kinda outside what I normally do, so I would really appreciate knowing what you think! As ever, comments and kudos are great! 
> 
> The archive warnings are there for a reason :)

Jaime knew Brienne could not stay the whole night - she needed to go to that place beyond where he could reach her, where she was Miss Brienne Tarth - but it still hurt when he woke in the morning to find her gone. That thorn stayed lodged in his heart as he got dressed, but its prick lessened somewhat when he saw the folded piece of paper that she had left on the bedside cabinet with one word written on the front.

_Jaime_

Although he had always struggled with reading, he knew enough to recognise his own name. Fearing that he would not be able make out the message she had left inside, he unfolded the paper carefully, not wanting to smudge the ink and make it harder for himself. However, he was pleasantly surprised (and relieved) by what he found inside. The whole space was taken up by a giant heart she had drawn, and inside was enclosed a lock of her hair.

Smiling, Jaime found a handkerchief and wrapped it up, determined to treasure it forever, putting it in the pocket of his waistcoat that was closest to his heart.

* * *

"This is a stupid plan, Cersei," came Tyrion's voice when Jaime entered their house later that morning. "A stupid, stupid plan."

The happiness that had been keeping Jaime's heart afloat ever since he had lain with Brienne dimmed slightly when he walked into the living room and found Tyrion perched on a chair by the fire, beer bottle in hand, and Cersei dressed in her Sunday best, a bag at her feet.

"What is happening?" asked Jaime warily, as both his siblings turned to look at him. Tyrion seemed tired, whereas Cersei was grinning enthusiastically.

"I am leaving this shithole," she announced triumphantly. "The Earl has asked me to come to London with him as his mistress."

_The Earl? _With everything that had been going on with Brienne, Jaime had almost forgotten Cersei's plan to become the Earl of Cawdor's kept woman. Shooting a nervous look at Tyrion, Jaime realised it was his job to continue the conversation when Tyrion just shrugged. "She won't listen to me," Tyrion said, taking a sip of his beer.

Jaime turned to Cersei, whose green eyes were sparkling. "Cersei... why now? Why today?"

"The Earl asked me a week ago, but today is the first day Vargo has been at the warehouse."

Jaime gazed at her confusedly. He knew the warehouse was Vargo's office a few roads away, but he could not quite work out why it was a prerequisite for Cersei to make her flight to London. "What difference does that make where Hoat is?" he asked, trying to keep the venom out of his voice.

Cersei rolled her eyes, as if he was some sort of imbecile. "When Vargo is at the warehouse, he does not surround himself with his heavies. It means that by the time he realises I am missing, I will be long gone, and the Earl will be able to protect me. Pimps don't like mislaying their whores."

Jaime felt cold, knowing that Cersei was not losing her pimp but gaining a new one, but decided to put it to her gently. "Why are you so willing to throw yourself under the protection of some man you barely know? Especially when it is just to be his kept whore? A whore with pretty clothes and pretty things, yes, but a whore nonetheless." Brienne was so desperate to be free of what men wanted her to be, that Jaime could not quite understand why Cersei always played up to her femininity. It was a prison, just like Brienne's was.

"You don't know what it's like," Cersei snapped, not in irritation but in boredom for having to explain herself. "You're poor so you can use your mind, your wits, your cunning, or your brawn to keep yourself out of poverty. All I have is my body, and if the Earl is fool enough to fawn on me and give me jewels when I am young, at least someday I will be a rich old woman, able to do what I wish. It's better than staying in Hoat's stable, and better than hoping that one day one of my brothers will get me out of here."

Jaime felt a pang of inadequacy at that. "You know I am saving money. Soon we will be able to get enough money to go to America, all three of us, and we can buy a farm, settle down and live off the land..."

Cersei outright scoffed at that. "You are such a romantic, Jaime. How is poverty in the countryside better than poverty in the city? I do not wish to waste my life on a dream that one day I might be able to scrabble round in the dirt picking potatoes on some godforsaken farm along the Mississippi with you two. The Earl is offering me an apartment on Grosvenor Square - _Grosvenor Square!_\- and I will have a maid and a footman and my own carriage. I would have to be mad to give up all that for a stupid idealised dream of America that may never come true."

Even though they were nothing alike, there was something about Cersei's determined gaze that reminded him of Brienne. Brave Danny Flint had invented herself to escape the maid, the footman, and her carriage. She had put on a waistcoat and a man's shirt to run away from what was expected of a woman of her class, in order to live the dream of being a bare-knuckle boxer and taking him to bed. Cersei's hard-nosed realism seemed so cold and depressing in comparison.

"It _will _come true," Jaime insisted, "I will make it come true. I will show you, I'll..."

"You have another five minutes," Cersei said, "before I need to leave for my stagecoach. Do you have the money for the tickets to America now?"

Jaime blushed. With all the bodies he and Brienne had been selling, he was _close, _but not there yet. "No..."

There was perhaps something sad in Cersei's eyes at that confession. "Then I am leaving. The Earl is offering me an opportunity. All you have is a dream that will turn into ashes in your mouth before it becomes reality."

Jaime tried to say something, but Tyrion held up his hand. "I do not think there is any way to persuade her."

Cersei nodded, not quite looking Jaime in the eye. "He is right. I want to be free of this city, this house, of _Mr Hoat. _This is the only chance I am going to get."

The thought of his sister being out of the grasp of the man who had bruised and brutalised Brienne was as much part of his ambitions for America as the actual ticket itself, so Jaime just gave her a small smile. "Alright, sister. I wish you luck."

Her tight expression softened. "You are wishing me... luck?"

"Of course," Jaime said. "I only want... I want you to be happy."

She leant forward and pecked him on the cheek. "Oh Jaime, such romantic wishes will get you killed in a world like this." He only noticed there were tears on his cheeks when she wiped them away with her hand. "You always had such a soft heart."

_A soft heart, _Jaime thought, as he watched his sister pick up her bag from by the fire and turn to leave. She gave both her brothers a nod of farewell before going to the door. Part of Jaime knew that he would never see Cersei again, but he was foolish enough to permit himself dreams that he would.

_I will allow myself that weakness, _he told himself.

"Goodbye, Cersei," said Jaime, his voice thin.

She gave him a look that commanded him to be strong. "Goodbye."

His sister left without another word. Once she had gone, Jaime sat down next to Tyrion and gazed into the flames. He wished her the best with her reality in London, but also dreamt of a world where she could have a maid, a footman, and her heart's every desire without submitting her flesh to the Earl of Cawdor.

_At least she is free from Hoat._

The orange light of the fire reminded Jaime of the candlelight in the room at _The Pennytree Inn, _which had illuminated Miss Brienne Tarth's freckled skin so beautifully. Although she was such a different woman to his sister, Vargo Hoat had bruised and injured both. Cersei had already fled; he would not see the same thing to Brienne. Not _his _Brienne. Patting his waistcoat just where he knew he kept a lock of her hair, Jaime began to map out a plan in his head.

If Cersei Lannister could be free of Vargo Hoat, so could Brave Danny Flint.

* * *

Leaving Tyrion to his beer, Jaime went to Vargo's warehouse. He waited outside for several hours until it started to get dark, trying to scope out the area. A few of Hoat's punters had entered the building, but there was no sign of the man himself. Perhaps Cersei's information was right; Mr Hoat was spending the day in his office.

Jaime hoped that meant he was alone.

He slipped into the warehouse behind one of Hoat's perfumed whores, who he sweetened into silence with a smile and by calling her a lady. In thanks, she blushed furiously and made no attempt to alert anyone to his presence. Jaime gave her another smile; this time in immense gratitude. Through trial and error, he located Hoat's office on the second floor. The door was ajar, so Jaime could just see Hoat's desk and the back of the man who was currently facing his judgement before the local gangster.

"Mr Hunt, you owe me several hundred pounds," lisped Mr Hoat. "I hope you are here to tell me you have my money."

Jaime could almost hear Hyle Hunt gulping from outside the room. "Err... no sir, I am sorry I don't. There's not been many fights lately and I..."

"I do not care," replied Mr Hunt. "You owe me money."

"And I told you I don't have it," said Mr Hunt, his voice quavering, "I..."

Vargo laughed, cold and cruel. Jaime wondered if he had laughed the same way as he had tried to humiliate Brienne; he imagined he did. Mr Hoat took pleasure in other people's pain, after all. "You know, I don't need my men with me to threaten and cajole people, Mr Hunt."

Jaime did not wait for Mr Hunt's stammering reply; Hoat's admittance that he was alone was the only confirmation he needed. The presence of the bookmaker would be a complication, yes, but at that moment Jaime did not care. He just wanted to look into the eyes of the man who had hurt Brienne and then make him pay.

The door slammed into the wall when Jaime swung it open, not caring for Hoat's delicate mahogany panelling. It was all just an attempt to dress up a den of iniquity as somewhere respectable, in any case. Mr Hunt's eyes were wide when Jaime appeared, but Mr Hoat looked unsurprised.

"Ah, Kingslayer," lisped Mr Hoat, getting to his feet and walking in front of his desk. "I wondered how long it would be before you came to see me. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"You know why I am here," spat Jaime, barely able to keep his anger at bay. "Why did you do it? Why _her_? It was nothing to do with her. If you wanted to hurt me, why didn't you just hurt _me, _you coward?"

Mr Hoat laughed maliciously, his smile barely touching his eyes. "She is a she then? My men and I could not tell, and we were only curious." It was the mocking tone that was too much, along with the menacing grin. It was relish that sickened Jaime; Mr Hoat had attempted to rape Brienne and, if she wasn't half as strong as she was, he would have succeeded, and Cersei had run halfway across the country to get away from him. He was as bad as Aerys Targaryen, if not worse.

"You know the saying, don't you, Hoat?"

For the first time since Jaime entered the room, Mr Hoat looked a little uneasy. "No. What saying?"

"Curiosity kills the cat."

Without another word, another thought, another second, Jaime lunged at Hoat, knowing this was going to be one of the few chances he would ever get at showing the gangster how much he hated him. It clearly surprised his target but, as Jaime was a boxer, he noticed the way Hoat went to grimace before punching him, so he was able to slide out of the way before Hoat could get him. Then, he landed one of his own in Hoat's stomach. The man responded by attempting to grab Jaime by his collar, but that only meant the pair of them drew close, allowing Jaime to make an attempt at a hook. Perhaps quickly understanding that he was fighting a formidable opponent, Hoat retreated to the desk, swinging out of the way of Jaime's punch.

"Gentleman!" cried Mr Hunt in vain, "there is no need for a fight!"

The bookmaker's interjection distracted Jaime for a brief second, as he turned to look at Mr Hunt who was slowly backing himself into a corner in order to avoid getting hit. Mr Hoat did not make the same mistake. Moving like an agile cat, he swiped something up from the top of his desk, and Jaime only recognised what it was when in flashed silver in the dim light.

_A knife, _he thought.

Although he was not as skilled fighter as Jaime, the weapon gave him a distinct advantage, so when Mr Hoat lunged at him with the blade, Jaime stuck his hands in front of his face in an instinctual attempt to protect himself. While the move saved his life, it did result in a shock of excruciating pain as the knife tore through the soft flesh of his right palm, the blood splashing onto Jaime's face as Hoat ripped the point out again.

"You bastard!" screamed Jaime, staring down at his ruined hand.

_I'll never fight again, _he thought madly. _How can I box like this? How can I work like this? How can I hold Brienne's hand like this? How can I pleasure her like this?_

Mr Hoat's gratification seemed to bloom at Jaime's distress. "Not so cocky now are we, Kingslayer?"

There was a flash of light as the blade came up once more.

_This is it, _thought Jaime. _I am a dead man._

However, it was at that moment Mr Hunt decided to leap into action. Coming at him from behind, Hyle charged at Mr Hoat, which succeeded in sending the knife clattering to the ground. However, Mr Hoat was cunning and elbowed Mr Hunt in the ribs, which sent the bookmaker doubling over in pain. He then shoved him back, cracking Mr Hunt's head against the wall and sending him into a momentary daze.

Distracted by the overwhelming pain in his hand, Jaime could barely find the wherewithal to counter Mr Hoat when he came at him again. Drawing his right hand into his body, Jaime tried to land a couple of jabs on him with his left hand, but it had none of the strength of his right. Furthermore, Mr Hoat was high on adrenaline, his own love of violence, and the scent of victory, so he charged at Jaime, knocking him to the floor.

Once he was down, Jaime was weak, especially as he was in too much pain to attempt to perform one of the boxing counters to Mr Hoat's hold. Relishing the vulnerable position he had his foe in, Mr Hoat brought his fingers round Jaime's throat, determined to choke the life out of him. Aware that he would quickly lose consciousness, Jaime attempted to pull at Mr Hoat's hands, but they were too strong.

"Do you know why I did it, Kingslayer?" spat Mr Hoat, great globules of saliva landing in Jaime's face as he lisped his way through the sentence. "Because if I had succeeded in fucking your whore, in hurting her in that way unique to women, I'd have _enjoyed _it. The thought of seeing her cry as I ruined her would have made me happy. Fuck, I would have loved to see that giant bitch _weep. _And I would have spoiled her for you forever too. Call it revenge served cold."

The image of Brienne, bruised and vulnerable, came to Jaime's oxygen-starved mind. It was typical of Hoat to think he could ruin someone so good, so wonderful, who shined with such an inner light. The thought of Hoat _enjoying _Brienne's pain made Jaime's next decision all the easier.

Once the knife was in his left hand, Jaime wasted no time in stabbing it into Hoat's guts, twisting the blade to cause extra pain. At the impact, Hoat let go of Jaime's neck, and his foe's momentary weakness it allowed Jaime to flip him off him and onto his back. Even though Jaime had escaped the prospect of imminent death, it did not mean that he would ever, ever relent.

"This one is for Cersei!" he shouted, bringing the knife down into Hoat's stomach again. The man let out a roar of agonised pain as his shirt became awash with blood. It only made Jaime more determined. "This one is for Pia!" This time he aimed for Hoat's groin. The man's eyes rolled into the back of his head, as if he could not bear seeing his own ruin. "And this one is for Brienne!"

The blow landed somewhere on Hoat's chest, but even so Jaime did not stop. All he could think of was all the evil this man had spun around him; the whorehouse, the threats, the deaths, the rapes, the murders. Bringing the knife down again and again and again, Jaime felt the blood coursing through his veins as every cruel thing that Hoat had ever done flashed through his mind. Every crime was accompanied by a thrust of the knife and the room seemed to get darker and darker.

_The thought of seeing her cry as I ruined her would have made me happy. _

_Fuck, I would have loved to see that giant bitch weep._

_Burn them. Burn them all._

Jaime only stopped ripping into Mr Hoat's body with the rapidly blunting knife when the villain was totally still. However, it was not the silence that brought Jaime back from the precipice of bloodlust, but Mr Hunt's hand on his shoulder. Flinching away, Jaime dropped the knife and he got to his feet, suddenly conscious of every light, scent, and noise in the little room. Mr Hunt just stared at him.

_My coat is soaked in Hoat's blood, _thought Jaime. _I need to get it off. I need to get him off me._

Jaime was barely conscious of anything other than the need to wash Mr Hoat from his skin as he ripped his jacket off and threw it in the fire. The blaze sputtered and choked at the impact, but Jaime barely cared. Better to be cold than blood stained.

In the end, it was the bookmaker who spoke first.

"He's dead," he pronounced, as if the obvious was a surprise. Jaime barely heard him, however, as he was too busy staring at his own blood-soaked hands. If he were Tyrion, or Brienne, perhaps he would quote Shakespeare - _will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? _\- but as he was only Jaime he thought of more practical things.

_My hands looked the same the night I killed Aerys._

_Red._

_The only difference this time is some of this is my blood._

Jaime only stopped staring in horror at his ruined right palm when he felt Mr Hunt's hands on his shoulders. "You _killed _him."

"I did," croaked Jaime, not looking the bookmaker in the eye. "He deserved it. He was a bad man."

It took Mr Hunt a few seconds, but eventually he nodded in agreement. There was no more perfect phrase for Hoat; he _was _a bad man. That subtle tilt of the bookmaker's head planted a small seed of hope in Jaime's heart. Mr Hunt's acknowledgement of Mr Hoat's nature, along with his presence, would mean that this time, perhaps, Jaime would not earn infamy for a killing but understanding.

_I will just be the Kingslayer, _thought Jaime. _Not the Goatslayer too._

Keeping his eyes firmly off the body, Mr Hunt said something almost intelligent, which was at odds with both his and Jaime's shock. "What do we do now? We can't leave his body in the middle of his office."

"No," agreed Jaime. "We can't."

"Then what do we do with it?"

The necessity to do something _practical _was what eventually snapped Jaime out of his blood-soaked daze, and the answer came to him immediately. "We will get a bedsheet from one of the whore's rooms and wrap him in it. We will then take him to Cowgate, it's not far."

"Cowgate?" said Mr Hunt incredulously. "Why would we go there?"

"There is a doctor who pays handsomely for dead bodies," admitted Jaime, omitting the detail that Doctor Qyburn liked them undamaged. "We'll make some money _and _get rid of the evidence."

Mr Hunt thought about the prospect for a moment, his greed clearly overcoming his fear. "I _do _need some cash..."

"Precisely," said Jaime, knowledge of Mr Hunt's weakness making him suddenly confident. "Go and get the sheet. I will try and tidy things up in here as much as possible."

When Mr Hunt left the room, Jaime had no intention of tidying anything up at all as Mr Hoat's office was now unmistakably a murder scene. Instead, he stared at his ruined right hand. Part of him wanted to shout at the pain, at the fact this could permanently cost him his boxing career, but he bit his lip in an effort to keep quiet. He would not let himself regret this.

_I killed him for Brienne, _he told himself. _I would do it a thousand times over._

When Mr Hunt returned with the sheet, the two men wasted no time at all in wrapping up their new money maker, as if he was some kind of prized pig. Given Jaime's damaged hand, Mr Hunt agreed have to take most of the load, but Jaime promised to carry as much as he could. It was then that Mr Hunt started to panic.

"What if someone sees us?" he squawked. "What if we trip and reveal the body?"

Leaving the corpse on the floor, Jaime went over to Hoat's desk, finding a handkerchief in his top drawer. He began to attempt to wipe the blood between his fingers away, before wrapping it around his injured hand. It was all he could do to try and gain anything approaching normality. "Are you planning on tripping while we are running?"

"No," said Mr Hunt.

"Are you planning on tripping me?"

Mr Hunt looked at him confusedly. "No? Why would I do that?"

"Well then," said Jaime firmly, "why would we trip or fall? We have nothing to worry about. Nobody will see us or disturb us, because we will be quick. We will carry the body to Doctor Qyburn's and then all this will disappear... for the both of us." Even though he was pale as snow in his fear, Mr Hunt nodded slowly, giving Jaime his assent.

It was all that was needed to draw him into the conspiracy.

* * *

When Jaime and Mr Hunt dumped Mr Hoat's blood-soaked body on Doctor Qyburn's beautiful Persian rug, Jaime's accomplice was not the only one who looked ill, as Senelle the maid appeared to be about to vomit.

"We are here to see Doctor Qyburn," said Jaime, not caring for her distress. "If you would be so kind, please could you send him up?"

She gave a quick nod, before descending down into Qyburn's laboratory, her face pale. "Sir! Sir! SIR!"

"She sounds a little panicked. Will she tell someone other than the doctor what we've done?" whispered Mr Hunt nervously. Even though he knew Mr Hunt was asking a sensible question, Jaime just tried to ignore him; fear did no one any good.

When Senelle reappeared with Doctor Qyburn, she was the image of terror, while Qyburn's face was as placid as ever. "Ah, I see you have come with another... _gift_... Mr Lannister and... do I know you?"

"Mr Hunt," said Hyle gruffily, trying to look anywhere other than Mr Hoat's ruined corpse.

Qyburn's eyes flicked back to Jaime, clearly sensing he was in charge. "I thought I told you I wanted _undamaged _bodies."

Jaime shrugged, before attempting to keep his voice calm, nonchalant, assured. "There's not _much _damage... we dug him up that way."

"Did you now?" said Doctor Qyburn mildly, "and I suppose that is how you injured your hand, Mr Lannister? Digging with a shovel?"

"Something like that," replied Jaime.

"Strange," said Qyburn. "It looks like a stab wound."

There was a horrible moment as the doctor eyed Jaime as if he expected him to confess. Not knowing whether he could truly trust Qyburn, that path clearly only led to danger, so Jaime just kept his gaze steady and prayed that Mr Hunt would stay quiet. Luckily, it seemed to bookmaker had some nous, because after an extended silence from both of them, Doctor Qyburn grew bored of his game. Giving his two guests an almost imperceptible smile, he turned to his maid. "Senelle, will you go and get the footman? I would like them to carry _the gift _down to the laboratory." Senelle nodded and ran out of the room, evidently grateful at not having to remain in the room with the bloodied corpse. Once she was gone, Doctor Qyburn looked back at Jaime. "Why _this _man?"

Jaime furrowed his brow. "I don't understand."

Doctor Qyburn picked his words carefully. "All the others you have brought to me - the old man and the two young women - have all looked as if they were asleep. Almost angelic, peaceful. They were in a condition to suggest they were aware they were soon to meet their maker. This is different. _Unnatural. _What is so different about this man? Why this particular... indignity?" 

Mr Hunt turned to Jaime, clearly not understanding Qyburn's riddling speech and hoping his accomplice would answer. Jaime obliged him.

"He was not very nice to women," spat Jaime, knowing that was putting it lightly. Part of him wanted to explain Mr Hoat's entire horrible history, to justify himself in the knowledge that this man deserved to die but, in truth, he knew that Doctor Qyburn did not need to know anything about what really happened. It would only endanger them all.

Doctor Qyburn tilted his head slightly, as if considering where that statement fit in his personal morality. It took a moment but, eventually, he seemed to decide. "Mr Lannister, why don't you come with me and I will take a look at your hand? All that _digging _clearly took its toll."

Jaime let out a breath he did not know he had been holding. "Thank you, sir. I would appreciate that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I hope you liked that. A bit of violence in place of last chapters tooth-rotting romance! Also, there was a tiny Easter Egg to "Run, Fat Knight, Run" for the eagle-eyed reader who has been following my other fics. As ever, I love hearing what you think, so please consider leaving comments and kudos.
> 
> Next chapter... Brienne discovers what Jaime has done in her name...


	13. Brienne VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Vargo Hoat's death, Brienne discovers Jaime's hand in it...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! I hope you like this chapter, I've certainly enjoyed writing it. I love hearing your thoughts and opinions, so please consider leaving comments and kudos.

On Sunday morning, Brienne went to church with Mrs Roelle and Lady Catelyn, intending to think of God but instead replaying her night with Jaime over and over in her mind's eye. She had been so scared that everything between them had been ruined forever by Hoat's invading hands, but Jaime had been so immensely gentle with her that it had washed away every last fear.

Throughout her childhood, Mrs Roelle had terrified her with stories of what her first bedding would be like - bloody, painful, _ripping_\- but with Jaime, she had felt so safe that it did not seem as if she was giving anything precious away at all. Instead, she had been the receiver of his love, his affection, his seed. Although in the moment that exchange had felt intensely intimate, now Brienne was not cuddled up close to him, she could see that they had been foolish. As far as they both knew, they were young and fertile, and Brienne was aware it would only take one time for Jaime to put a child in her belly, and so her fears of intimacy had now been replaced by ones of conception.

Consequently, the first thing she did when she woke up on Sunday morning had been to ask the maid who came to light the fire in her room whether she knew where she could find an herbalist, or even whether she had some pennyroyal. The maid's eyes had gone wide with shock at that request, so Brienne had tried to brush it all off, claiming it was mere scientific curiosity.

Sitting in the church, she prayed that the maid believed her.

On Monday, she made some excuse to go walking with Miss Tyrell and then directed her to the local market. As Margaery babbled on and on about her betrothed, Mr Renly Baratheon - who Brienne had always suspected much preferred Margaery's brother Loras - Brienne scouted around for a stall that might sell some pennyroyal. She hit the jackpot with a stand draped in a sign saying _Ygritte's Herbs. _The woman who ran it was hard to ignore, with long red hair down to her waist and an icy stare. If Brienne was in anyway superstitious, she may have suspected Ygritte of being a witch, straight out of the pages of the _Malleus Maleficarum_. As she was not, it was Miss Tyrell who asked the question outright.

"Are you a witch?" she enquired haughtily, as if she did not believe in their existence, but was checking, nonetheless.

Ygritte sniggered, perhaps at Margaery's tone, perhaps at her ignorance. "No young Miss, but some people might call me one of the cunning folk."

Miss Tyrell's mouth fell open. "Then you are an affront to modern medicine! Who would countenance you peddling falsehoods while _real _doctors push the bounds of science?"

At Miss Tyrell's exclamation, Brienne could not help but think of Doctor Qyburn. Whenever she and Jaime went to drop a body off, they never asked probing questions about what he did with the corpses. Deep down, Brienne feared he was making a monster. Perhaps her anxiety about her guilty secret showed on her face, because instead of replying to Margaery's question, Ygritte turned to her with curiosity, her knowing eyes seeing beyond Brienne's mask.

"I hope you do not think ill of the cunning folk like Little Miss here?"

"Of course not," Brienne said gently, as Margaery shot her a look of disgust at her treachery. "It's just... I was interested in making a pomander and wondered if you could recommend the best herbs to use?"

Instantly bored of the conversation, Miss Tyrell turned her back on the stall and made her way across to an enthusiastic hawker who was selling ribbons for bonnets and hairpieces. Much more her style. With Miss Tyrell gone, Ygritte began pottering around behind the counter in search of Brienne's request. "Well, apart from the orange you will need cloves, maybe some lavender..."

Knowing she did not have much time, Brienne caught Ygritte by the wrist to stop her in her tracks. Trying to keep her voice steady, she said, "I do not want to make a pomander. I need some pennyroyal."

To Brienne's surprise, Ygritte laughed, fully and hearty and without fear. "Ah, even those who want to be ladies need pennyroyal in the end. What? Some passing dandy get under your petticoats at a ball?"

"No," replied Brienne sincerely, hoping to convey the depths of her problem in as few words as possible. "I love him very dearly, but at this moment there is no way my guardian would..." Brienne turned her head to check Miss Tyrell was well out of earshot before leaning in and saying, "there is no way my guardian would allow me to give birth to the bastard son of a bare-knuckle boxer from the wrong side of town. When we laid together, he..."

Ygritte's smile turned knowing. "Tried his luck and came inside you. Good for you. Good for him, but now you need the woman's herb."

Brienne's heart was hammering in her chest, conscious of the fact the ribbon seller would not hold Margaery's attention for long. "Yes please. I would pay anything..."

Ygritte waved her hand in the air, before reaching across to a small jar on the top shelf. "Here is some pennyroyal oil. Take three sips before you go to sleep tonight. It will make you bleed, but it will wash out his seed."

Brienne gasped in relief. "Thank you. How much...?"

Ygritte shook her head. "Nothing. I recognise a fellow woman who likes to walk on the wild side. Next time your bare-knuckle boxer wants to come inside you, tell him to do it in your mouth... after he's repaid the favour of course."

Brienne was the colour of a sundried tomato by the time Margaery came back to the stall, a ribbon in her hand. Plaiting it into her hair, Miss Tyrell said, "come on, let's go. I would like to walk up to the castle." Not having much choice, Brienne let Margaery pull her away, but she did shoot one last glance back at Ygritte, who smiled at her knowingly.

"Remember, put it in your mouth. You might even enjoy it."

* * *

Later that evening, Brienne was forced to have a long dinner with Mrs Roelle and Lady Catelyn, where the former twittered on about Brienne being so unlike Miss Tyrell it was almost embarrassing, and the latter only intervening to comment on the lack of a good hanging recently. It left Brienne cold to the bone, so when the two women finally announced they were retiring to bed, she did so too, intending on downing Ygritte's potion before going to sleep.

She had just got into her chemise when she heard a tap against her window. Instantly recognising it as the sound of Podrick Payne throwing stones to get her attention, she crossed the room to look outside, astonished that he was here any day other than on a Saturday. Noticing immediately that he looked a little pale, she leaned out of the window and asked, "Pod, what's the matter?"

He bit his lip nervously as he said, "I'm sorry to tell you but... it's Mr Lannister. He's badly hurt, and I think he would like to see you."

All the air was knocked of her lungs at Pod's statement, and it vanquished all her plans for a good night's sleep.

_Jaime... my love._

"He's hurt? Where? When? How?"

Pod shook his head. "I'll explain when we are on route. Be quick, Mr Flint. Some of the lights are still on in the rest of the house."

_I don't give a damn, _Brienne thought sharply. _Mrs Roelle and Lady Catelyn can do nothing to keep me away from him, not when he is hurt!_

"I will be as quick as I can," she said, hurrying across the room to find Mr Flint's clothes. Yanking up the loose floorboard, in her effort to be fast, she knocked the edge of the bedside cabinet, which sent Ygritte's potion clattering to the floor. The small bottle smashed into little pieces and the oil seeped into the woodwork.

Yet Miss Brienne Tarth barely cared.

_Jaime. Jaime. Jaime._

* * *

When Brienne and Pod reached Doctor Qyburn's house, they were directed to enter through the servant’s quarters as that was where Jaime was being lodged while he recovered. Slipping past the maid, Senelle, who seemed to be on one late night errand or another, Brienne let one of the footmen lead her to a small room on the ground floor, lit entirely by the moonlight streaming through the open window. To her immense relief, inside, she found her beloved.

The sight of him almost made her cry.

His right hand - his dominant hand that he needed to box - was wrapped up tightly in bandages, which were stained red with blood. His face was a pale and his eyes blank and staring at the state her found himself in. Brienne could hardly bare to see him like this.

_My Jaime is too good for this cruel world._

Not stopping to look around, Brienne charged across the room and sat down on the bed beside him, wrapping her arms around him and covering his face in enthusiastic kisses. If she could not make him better, she would at least make sure he felt loved.

"Oh my darling," she sobbed, suddenly conscious that her face was awash with tears. "What has happened to you?"

When Jaime did not immediately answer, she drew him into a deep kiss, trying to tell him how much he meant to her and pull her back to the here and now, where he was her beloved, her _Jaime. _Waiting for his answer, she was disappointed to find they were interrupted from by a voice from behind her.

"Oh, Mr Flint," said Mr Hunt the bookmaker awkwardly, "I did not realise that you and the Kingslayer were _of that persuasion." _He didn't look particularly judgemental about it, just surprised.

To Brienne's immense relief, it was Mr Hunt's comment that brought Jaime back to her. "Shut up, Hunt," he growled. "I do not understand why some men are incapable of opening their eyes. Brienne is clearly a woman. Clearly a lady. Clearly my... love."

As he was pronouncing all the things she clearly was, Jaime had taken her hat off and loosened her hair, so it fell in tresses around her shoulders. It was the way she had looked during their night together at the _Pennytree Inn _and, going by his rapidly reddening cheeks, Brienne was gratified that the memory of it gave him pleasure. Tentatively stroking her cheek with her left hand, Jaime gazed into her eyes, and Brienne knew it was the best chance she had to crack open this particular nut.

"How did you hurt your hand?" she asked gently, almost unconsciously caressing his face.

"It was Hoat," said Jaime croakily.

Brienne's insides turned to ice. "Hoat?"

Jaime nodded, biting at his lip nervously. "He stabbed me, straight through the palm. Doctor Qyburn has stitched me up, but he has said I will lose all mobility and even my whole hand if I get an infection. How can I box like this? How can I...?" Pulling him to her, she positioned his head in the crook of his neck and then began to rub soothing circles onto his back. He relaxed into her, his lips pressed against her skin, while she wrapped her arms around him in a way that she hoped he found comforting.

"Shhh... Jaime. It will be alright."

He shook his head against her neck, her shoulder wet with his silently falling tears. "No, it won't. I'll never box again and I've disappointed... _you._Why would you ever want a man with a useless right hand and who has done so many bad things?"

"Bad things?" she asked confusedly, not understanding where all this self-hatred was suddenly coming from. "What bad things?"

Yes, he had killed Aerys Targaryen, but Jaime had told her that story in his own words and she had understood. But apart from that? He had been one of the few people to treat her as an independent person with her own heart, soul, and brain that she was the master of. How could he ever be bad when was only man to ever recognise her humanity?

Jaime did not answer, at least, not with words; he gripped hold of her tightly, as if she were his cure and salvation. Instead, it was Mr Hunt who answered her practical question.

"Mr Hoat..." he stammered, trying to find the best way to begin. "The Kingslayer stabbed him. Repeatedly. He's dead."

"Dead?" she asked, stunned. Mr Hoat's shadow had hung over Jaime's world for so long that Brienne did not think they would ever be rid of it. At her words, Brienne could feel Jaime tense in her arms. It just made her hold on tighter.

Mr Hunt nodded as Pod stepped forward. "Doctor Qyburn took him downstairs for _experiments."_

"I am sorry, Brienne," cried Jaime into her shoulder. "I did it because he was a bad man, but I know I am no better..."

That was the final straw for her. Tilting his head up so she could look into his eyes, Brienne spoke to him with all the feeling she could muster. "You are a thousand times the man Hoat was, a million times. If he had killed you, would he be weeping with the guilt? No! He would be laughing at your pain, feeling angry he could not cause you more. So I am glad he is gone, I am only disappointed that you had to be the one to end it and feel tarnished by it."

It was the fact that her words were understanding seemed to surprise him most of all. "Brienne, I do not want you to see me like this," he sobbed. "A man who can't claim his own sins. A man who can't fight anymore. I am barely a man at all..."

Brienne understood why he was feeling sorry for himself - having to murder someone and then being hurt was not necessarily good for one's mood - but she would not take it anymore. If Jaime had been there for her when she felt violated and alone, she would be here for him now. "You are my man," she insisted passionately, "just as I am your woman, and fuck anyone who says otherwise."

"Brienne, I..."

"No, Jaime, I will not hear it," she snapped. "I love you! I love you! I love..."

They were still kissing when the door of the room burst open, revealing the footman who had let them in earlier, his eyes wide and panicked.

"What's the matter?" asked Mr Hunt skittishly.

The footman wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "It's Doctor Qyburn. The militia are upstairs with him now, trying to arrest him for breaking the Anatomy Act."

In the silence that followed, you could have heard a pin drop.

"The Anatomy Act?" asked Pod nervously. "What's that?"

"It's the law that forbids unlicensed doctors’ access to cadavers. It's why he used your services instead of presenting up at the Royal Society, like Samwell Tarly."

Brienne felt sick to her stomach as she said, "how do they know?"

"The maid Senelle," the footman said bitterly. "She's been prattling on about her immortal soul ever since you brought that bloodied body to Doctor Qyburn. She clearly decided to go and inform the night-watchmen of your presence, and they've come here, arresting Qyburn in the process! You must get out of here now... if they find you, all four of you will be hanged for murder - Senelle is bound to have given them your names - and if you get caught, it will only make things worse for Doctor Qyburn!"

Mr Hunt acted without a second's delay. Charging across the room, he slung one leg out the window, ready to make a run for it. "Come on!" he said authoritatively, "we've got to get going. We have three horses between us. It's enough to get on the move quickly."

Glad someone was taking command, Brienne followed his plan without hesitation. Letting go of Jaime, she got up from the bed, before turning back to help him get up. "Jaime, let's go!"

Although he was still stunned and silent, Jaime obeyed her, and allowed her to help him across the room and out into the cool night air. Once they were outside, Pod and Mr Hunt made a rough plan. "Right," said Mr Hunt, "my sister owns a tanner’s shop in the city. There's an empty cottage she uses for storing hides a few miles away, nice and hidden in the country. I think it is best we use that as a safe house until we think of a better plan. There is room for four of us."

That Mr Hunt was sticking to them like glue made Brienne suspect that Jaime must have shown tremendous bravery in his fight with Hoat that permanently earned the bookmaker's respect. She allowed herself a split second to feel proud.

"Three of us will go," said Pod, interrupting Brienne's thoughts. "Mr Flint has to get back home. Her absence will be instantly noted."

Brienne knew he was right, but even so tried to object. "No! I must stay with Jaime! I must..."

Pod shook his head. "There is no time for arguments. Mr Hunt and I will look after him and will get a message to you as soon as possible to help you find us."

Jaime's eyes were filled with a heavy sadness as Brienne turned to him. She knew they only had a few seconds. "I will see you soon, my love," she whispered. "I want to see you much happier the next time we lay eyes on each other, do you hear me?" The alternative was too horrible to contemplate. At her order, Jaime did not offer her any words, just a kiss of farewell. It was sweet and slow, and only ended when Mr Hunt interrupted.

"Come on! We must go!"

Without another word, Jaime climbed up onto a horse behind Mr Hunt. After blowing on final kiss at her, Mr Hunt kicked the horse into action, and Brienne could only watch as her three accomplices disappeared into the night.

* * *

Miss Brienne Tarth took the remaining horse and galloped as fast as she could to Winterfell House. To her surprise, no one was chasing her, but even so she made sure she had the ride of her life. She desired her liberty, and if she was caught, she knew it would put the others in danger too. Clattering into the courtyard of Winterfell House, Brienne made sure the horse was safely in the stable before making her way to the drainpipe that she would use to climb up to her window. Working as quickly as she could, she tried to make as little noise as possible. The night was silent apart from the distant whinnying of her horse.

Brienne wasted no time in climbing through her window, but once she was inside gave herself a moment to try and rationalise what had happened that evening. Getting to her feet, all she could see was Jaime's haunted expression in her mind's eye. He had killed Hoat, most probably in part for what he had done for her. Although it was the most brutal kind of violence, Brienne realised that she almost thought of Hoat's death as a kind of seduction. With a flick of a blade, Jaime had won her a modicum of freedom.

She was just about to make her way across to her wardrobe to dress for bed, when the door to her bedroom swung open revealing the sleeping attire-clad Miss Roelle. "Miss Tarth, I am sorry for the late hour, but I thought I heard noises coming from the..."

Mrs Roelle's eyes lit up with a mixture of horror and understanding at the exact same time. It took Brienne a moment to realise why; she was so used to her governess' condescension that any new emotion was extraordinary. But then she remembered.

She was still dressed as Mr Daniel Flint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun-dun-dun! I hope you enjoyed that! As ever, I love comments and kudos :D
> 
> Also, there's a teeny tiny Run, Fat Knight, Run reference this week (but it may be difficult to spot!)
> 
> Next chapter... Brienne has to face Mrs Roelle's reaction to Mr Daniel Flint...


	14. Brienne VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has to face Mrs Roelle's wrath...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... it's getting dramatic up in here! I hope you enjoy this chapter. If you do, please consider leaving comments and kudos :)

"What do you think you are doing?" said Mrs Roelle, her voice as cold as the north wind as she looked Brienne up and down, from head to toe, and back again. It was the same glare she had given her when Brienne was eleven and had gone out to the garden to play Knights and Maidens with Sansa. Sansa had been the Princess with the flowing auburn hair, trapped in the highest room in the tallest tower of a terrifying castle, while Brienne was the knight coming to her rescue. For historical authenticity, they had decided to steal a pair of scissors from the dressmaker and cut all Brienne's hair off, so she looked like the knight she was pretending to be. When Mrs Roelle had discovered what they had done, she had some sharp words with Sansa and then beat Brienne black and blue with a cane.

Brienne swallowed loudly. She had not been prepared for this confrontation. Trying to think, she latched onto the undeniable truth that Mrs Roelle had not seen her climbing through the window, so merely thought her dressing up as a man in the middle of the night. It was a small mercy.

"I... I... I..." began Brienne, casting round for an explanation.

"Yes?" spat Mrs Roelle. Strangely, Brienne almost thought there was glee in her governess' eyes, as if after all these years she was happy at finally finding a piece of incontrovertible evidence that her charge was some kind of deviant. Steeling herself, Brienne was determined not to give her the satisfaction.

"When I went to the market with Miss Tyrell," said Brienne slowly, "I saw these clothes for a cheap price. As you know, I have always struggled making dresses for my size, so I just wondered if I could modify these in some way. I was thinking perhaps..."

Brienne did not have a chance to finish her sentence as Mrs Roelle took two large steps across the room and slapped her so hard across the face that all the breath was knocked out of her lungs. "You are a beastly liar, and you always have been. All the other governesses were given pretty little girls who grew up to be nice young ladies like Sansa or Miss Tyrell. _You, _however, have been as wild and wilful as you are ugly since the day you were born. It's no wonder your mother died giving birth to you; she must have taken one look at the monster she created and died of the shame."

Mrs Roelle may as well have hit her a second time for the amount that insult hurt. For as long as Brienne could remember, she had known her governess to be cruel, but she had always thought it was out of some twisted desire to make Brienne better. A better girl. A better maid. A better woman. She had not expected that her governess hated her.

"You have no right to speak to me like that," Brienne began, desperately wanting to stand up to the awful Mrs Roelle after so many years. "Because, at the end of the day, you are just a servant and I am a lady of this house."

Mrs Roelle scoffed nastily. "A lady? And here you are standing in a man's rags!"

"I told you, I am looking for a way to modify them..."

"And I told _you_," retorted Mrs Roelle, "you are a liar. I _know _you are up to something, and I will stop at nothing before I find out what it is and tell Lady Catelyn!"

Brienne shook her head, despairing at Mrs Roelle's venom. Nothing she ever said or did would ever be good enough for her governess, even if she retired to a life of chastity in a convent in the mountains or walled herself up as a hermit in the forest. The barbed insults were just the latest proof.

"Why do you hate me so much?" Brienne exclaimed, no longer being able to hold back from asking the question that had tortured her since she was a girl. "What have I ever done to you?"

"Apart from spending every day of your life rejecting your corset, cutting your hair, and not acting like a proper young lady?" thundered Mrs Roelle. "What gives _you _the right to be free when the rest of us must stay in the prisons men have created for us?"

And without another word, Mrs Roelle swept from the room, taking her fury, hatred, and resentment with her.

Brienne felt as if her heart was encased in ice.

* * *

After Brienne was discovered wearing men's clothes, she knew she had to be extra careful, because Mrs Roelle's eyes were on her every second of every day, waiting for her to reveal the true reason for her cross-dressing. When Brienne left her room in the morning, Mrs Roelle would be there. They would take lunch together. Mrs Roelle would accompany her to church. There was not a moment of the day when her governess left her alone. It even meant that Brienne could no longer use the excuse of going for walks with Miss Tyrell for a period of respite, as Mrs Roelle would insist on coming along.

And if Mrs Roelle's suspicions were not enough, the letters from Sansa were getting increasingly desperate.

_Dear Brienne, Ramsay is so cruel, he has taken a mistress. He parades her in the house, and allows her to treat me as if I were one of the scullery maids..._

_Dear Brienne, I am sorry I have been unable to write. Ramsay hit me so hard I was unconscious for half a day, and I fear I may have a concussion..._

_Dear Brienne, please tell me you have some money? I have saved a little myself from the small allowance my husband allows me, but I need more, and I fear I cannot stay here much longer..._

Every letter went into the fire before Brienne would reply with soothing, but empty, words. She honestly did not know what to say. It was true, she had some money p perhaps enough for a ticket and a half - but it was no longer just about her and Sansa. If Brienne was going to run away from Winterfell House, she wanted Jaime to come too. And yet Jaime had felt so far away. As the weeks passed, she heard nothing from him. She thought it was most likely because it was difficult for him to communicate with her when he was on the run, but still the silence stung. Indeed, the only news was an illuminating conversation Brienne had with Mrs Roelle and Lady Catelyn one night over dinner.

"The Anatomy Murders are all the talk of the town," said Lady Catelyn as Mrs Roelle wrinkled her nose. She clearly did not think that _murder _was a topic of conversations for two ladies and a lying beast but kept her opinions to herself in the face of her superior's glee.

"The Anatomy Murders?" asked Brienne gently. "What are the Anatomy Murders?"

Mrs Roelle went to say something, but Lady Catelyn cut across her, her eyes shining. "A Doctor Qyburn of Cowgate has been caught purchasing unlawful cadavers off a gang of ruffians. On the testimony of a maid who works at the doctor's house, it turns out that it is quite possible that the bodies they brought him were not merely stolen from graves - which would be bad enough - but expertly slaughtered for their use in the medical trade."

If it were not so serious, Brienne would have laughed. The thought of herself, Pod, and Jaime as _expert slaughterers _was faintly ridiculous. Trying to appear as impassive as possible, Brienne just stared down at her soup as she said, "oh, how horrible."

"Indeed," said Lady Catelyn trying to sound horrified, even if Brienne thought she detected a chord of glee in her voice. "The four villains deserve to hang."

"Four?" asked Brienne, focussing intently on a small piece of chicken floating across the top of her creamy soup as she spoke.

Even though Brienne was not looking up at her, she could tell Lady Catelyn was smiling. "Four men. A Mr Payne, who seems to be some sort of street rat. A Mr Hunt, one of those awful bookmakers who makes money off other people's weaknesses. A Mr Flint, who nobody knows much about, and a Mr Lannister, who rumours say has murdered before. Oh, what a sound it would be to hear their necks snap on the gallows!"

_Mr Payne. Mr Hunt. Mr Flint. Mr Lannister, _thought Brienne, their names going around and around their head. Only one of them had truly killed someone, but he was the most precious to her of all. And if she knew anything, it was that her Jaime did not deserve to die like a common criminal, because he was better than them all.

"I hope the militia catch them," interjected Mrs Roelle, her eyes fixed intently on Brienne, almost expecting her to contradict her.

Knowing any other reaction would be remiss, Brienne looked up, stared at her governess defiantly and said, "I know they will."

* * *

Brienne had to spend the next month and a half walking around the city of Edinburgh silently watching as more and more wanted posters appeared, inscribed with the faces of the Anatomy Murderers. Mr Payne, Mr Hunt, Mr Flint, and Mr Lannister became household names.

One day, when Brienne was out walking with Miss Tyrell and Mrs Roelle, Margaery stopped to get a closer look at one of the wanted posters depicting Mr Flint. Brienne suddenly became supremely fascinated by her right glove.

"Don't you think his face looks familiar?" said Margaery, "as if we've seen him somewhere before?"

Brienne knew the sketches must have been taken from descriptions given to the militia by Senelle; therefore, she hoped beyond all hope that the maid had never got a clear look at her face.

Mrs Roelle stepped forward, narrowing her eyes. "Yes. I suppose. Something around the eyes."

"Do you recognise him, Brienne?" asked Margaery.

Wanting to change the topic quickly, Brienne gave the drawing of her own face a cursory glance. "No. I've never seen her before in my life."

She only realised what she had said when Mrs Roelle snapped her head round, a curious expression on her face. "Her?"

"_Him,_" corrected Brienne swiftly. "I've never seen _him _before."

If Mrs Roelle had been watching her intently before, it only worsened after that little outburst. As the days passed, Brienne barely did anything but sit at home and fret, and sometimes felt so stressed that she threw up. It was worse in the mornings, because she would spend all night dreaming of Jaime swinging from a hangman's noose, being watched by the cold eyes of Lady Catelyn and laughed at by Mrs Roelle. After that, vomiting seemed the only sensible thing to do.

Brienne wondered if she should attempt to find Mr Hunt's sister's house. At least knowing where Jaime was might soothe her worries, and she genuinely considered sneaking out and discovering it for herself several times. But, ultimately, she did not allow herself to do so . If Jaime felt it was not safe to write to her, who was she to intrude on his sanctuary? She just hoped that the newspapers were right, and the three fugitives remained on the run. Perhaps things would die down in a few months, and then Brienne could work out a way to reunite with them.

Barely able to hide her anxiety, Brienne thought she must look as pale as a ghost every time she went to a meeting of the _Edinburgh Ladies Temperance and Virtue Society. _It was hard not to for Mrs Roelle would continually watch her, while Margaery would always attempt to sing some godawful aria at the piano. Brienne did not even allow herself to find comfort in talking to Mrs Tyrell, for she feared the old woman would take one look at her with her knowing eyes and everything would come spilling out. So, instead, Brienne just pretended to listen to the music while staring down at her hands.

Consequently, it was several weeks before anyone attempted to talk to her at a Society meeting and the woman who broke the silence was perhaps amongst the people Brienne least expected. As Margaery went to sit at the piano, Mrs Selyse Baratheon approached Brienne with her daughter, Shireen, who was looking up at her with terrified eyes. As the girl seemed so fearful, Brienne hoped it wasn't Margaery's attempts at singing that were causing her distress.

"I am sorry to disturb you, Miss Tarth," said Mrs Baratheon softly, her words almost muffled by Margaery's attempt at singing the _Queen of the Night _aria over at the piano. "But I was wondering if you could help us?"

"Of course," smiled Brienne cordially, hoping the request was nothing too taxing. She did not have a great fondness for Mrs Baratheon, after all.

The next thing Selyse said was so quiet that Brienne barely heard her. "My daughter has just... _flowered, _if you understand my meaning, and I just wondered if you had any spare rags upstairs she could use?"

Brienne gazed down at Shireen, with her unsightly pock-marked face. Feeling a twinge of sympathy for the terrified looking child, Brienne nodded. "Of course. I will go and fetch them from my room and put them in the privy. They will be in there in a few minutes."

Brienne accepted a grateful smile from Shireen that she did not know the girl possessed, before turning to leave the room and making her way up to her bedroom. The box of rags was located in the bottom drawer of the small cabinet next to her bed, so Brienne had no trouble locating it quickly. Pulling the box out, she momentarily placed them on the top of her bed, meaning to sort through to find some that would be suitable for a young girl. However, she never managed to, because Brienne noticed something that almost stopped her heart.

On top of the box of rags was a fine layer of dust.

_When did I last use these? _thought Brienne suddenly, panic seizing at her chest. With everything that had been going on, it was hard to remember, hard to decide what was before and what was after in the mad jumble of events. Trying to steady her breathing, she started to count back on her fingers, hoping against all hope that it was not what she feared.

_Two moons ago, _she realised with a pang of terror. _Two moons ago... before I slept with Jaime at the Pennytree Inn. _

If she were a lady, Brienne would have swooned.

_Oh lord, give me strength._

_I am with child._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHHHH! It is really not going well for Brienne at the moment! I hope you enjoyed that, and I would love to hear from you in the form of a comment or kudos :D
> 
> Next chapter... The hunt for the fugitives is on...


	15. Brienne IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has to work out what to do about her pregnancy...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after last time I thought I would put you out of your misery with the next chapter. I hope you enjoyed it and, if you did, please consider leaving comments or kudos!

For the rest of the day, Brienne existed in a strange, floating silence. Nothing around her was able to grasp her attention, because she was so acutely aware of the physical reality of her own body that nothing else seemed real. If she really concentrated, she could have sworn she could feel her and Jaime's baby inside her, blooming.

She did not know what to do, so she simply let the current take her. In the days that passed, she would spend her time embroidering a new cover for her Bible, would try to read pages of a novel that Miss Tyrell sent her, would pretend to be interested in going out to look at bonnets. However, every time she left the house, she was just confronted with Jaime's staring eyes from his wanted poster, and she would find herself spiralling into the same twister of anxious thoughts.

_I need to speak to Jaime. He needs to know about the baby._

_I can't speak to Jaime. He's on the run. He might not even be at the safehouse anymore._

_Maybe I can write him a letter._

_He can't read._

_Mr Hunt can read. He's a bookmaker._

_I'll write him a letter._

_But what if it is intercepted?_

_I will not write him a letter. _

_I need to see him face to face._

_I need to speak to Jaime. He needs to know about the baby._

Brienne's soaring fear only continued to grow for another week until the wave finally crashed against the shore. She had been out walking with Miss Tyrell; for once, Mrs Roelle had let her go with a tight smile. Brienne had not been suspicious about it, because she was too wrapped up in a torturous conversation with herself over whether she should attempt to write to Jaime. By the time she returned to Winterfell House, however, she knew it was wrong to have been so trusting.

"There are lots of horses outside you house, aren't there?" said Miss Tyrell, furrowing her brow. "Are you expecting visitors?"

Brienne's heart began to beat a little quicker. "Not as far as I know. I wonder who it is?"

She did not get the answer immediately, because when Brienne and Miss Tyrell walked to the front door, they found they were halted in their tracks by Mrs Roelle, who was waiting for them.

"Ah. Brienne. Margaery. We weren't expecting you back so soon."

Miss Tyrell gave one of her sweet smiles. "No, Miss Roelle, neither did we, but we thought it might rain so decided to come back for some tea."

Brienne could have sworn Mrs Roelle fluttered her eyelashes at that. "Oh, that sounds most _charming, _but I am afraid it will not be possible. Lady Catelyn has some important visitors and does not wish to be disturbed. I hope you understand, Miss Tyrell?"

Margaery went to nod in agreement, but Brienne cut across her. "We will just go to Miss Tyrell's house for tea then. We would not wish to interrupt Lady Catelyn's guests. Come on Margaery!"

As Brienne went to move away, her governess latched on to her wrist with an almost vice like grip. "Oh no, Brienne. The visitors are here to see you too. Miss Tyrell will have to come back another time."

A nasty sick feeling began to rise in her stomach at that statement, which Brienne thought had nothing to do with the fact it was the morning and she was pregnant. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to grab hold of Margaery's hand and never let go, as if she was the only shield against whatever waited for her inside.

However, Margaery did not seem to notice the tension.

"Oh, that's a shame, but I suppose I will see you soon, Miss Tarth. Perhaps we could go for a walk to the castle tomorrow?"

"Yes," replied Brienne, forcing her words out in order to stop herself crying. "That sounds lovely."

Margaery gave her a gentle smile that Brienne somehow thought did not belong in her life. "Goodbye Brienne."

"Goodbye Margaery."

Once Miss Tyrell began to make her way down the street, Mrs Roelle tightened her grip on Brienne's wrist and began to pull her inside.

"Come on. They're waiting for you."

* * *

_Five hundred and seventy two. Five hundred and seventy three. Five hundred and seventy four..._

Brienne counted every single one of the drops of water that fell from the crack in the window, knowing the alternative was to surrender to an overwhelming rage and sadness that she knew she did not have the skills to protect herself against.

Once Margaery had gone, Mrs Roelle had almost dragged Brienne up the stairs, a gleeful smile on her face. "Oh, I was so _excited _when I saw who had come to visit us. It was better than I could have ever anticipated..." Brienne stayed silence, not wanting to give her governess the satisfaction of seeing her fear.

Mrs Roelle led her to Lady Catelyn's study on the second floor. It was a small room, covered in mahogany panelling, which made it darker and dingier than anywhere else in the house. Brienne supposed that was why Lady Catelyn liked it so much; in the shadows, perhaps she felt closer to her dead children. To her surprise, however, Lady Catelyn was not the only person in the room. Standing in a neat formation were four men, each holding a rifle and dressed the smart redcoats that indicated they were members of His Majesty's Militia.

As Brienne noticed their presence, Lady Catelyn's face remained impassive. "This is her. Miss Brienne Tarth." There was no feeling in those words, nothing but a dead coldness. Looking at her guardian, Brienne wondered at how it was possible for grief to so completely extinguish feelings of human sympathy as it had in the former Lady Catelyn Stark.

_Stoneheart, _Brienne reminded herself.

At Lady Catelyn's words, one of the men stepped forward, a stony expression on his face. "Miss Tarth, I am Captain Janos Slynt of His Majesty's Militia. I wish I could say we were meeting in happier circumstances, but I regret to inform you that I am arresting you for the bodysnatching of Mr Augustus Pycelle, Miss Falyse Stokeworth, and Miss Pia McDonald, and the murder of Mr Vargo Hoat. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

Her first reaction had been one of panic, but knowing this could not be how it ended, she began babbling, trying to save herself. "I am not who you think I am... I am Miss Brienne Tarth, daughter of Selwyn Tarth! I am..."

"Mr Daniel Flint of Friar's Wynd," Captain Slynt interrupted, as he reached to one of his colleagues to take hold of a pair of heavy looking manacles. "We have significant evidence to suggest this is the case."

"No I am not!" she almost shouted, her terror rising. If this situation was not so dangerous, she would have almost found it funny, as she had spent so long denying to Jaime that she was Miss Brienne Tarth. Now, her name and her womanhood were all that was likely to save her.

"Yes you are," said the Captain firmly as he stepped forward, seizing her wrists. "Although they tried to resist questioning, the testimonies of Mr Hunt and Mr Payne proved quite useful in establishing your true identity. Mr Lannister kept trying to insist you were merely an old boxing pal he knew from the circuit, but I know an inveterate liar when I see one."

Brienne's heart was beating so furiously inside her that she thought the sound of it would make her eardrums burst. Her accomplices had been caught and had given evidence against her. She could quite imagine the tangled knots the interrogators would have tied Mr Hunt and Pod in, even if Jaime had managed to stay firm with his story. She supposed that was because she had spun him the tale of Mr Daniel Flint of Friar's Wynd so often that it felt like the truth; that or he loved her so completely he would rather lose his own soul than hers.

Tears were falling hot and heavy on Brienne's cheeks when Mrs Roelle spoke. "I also caught her dressing as a man in the middle of the night. She claimed it was something to do with wanting to refit the items, but I know her better than she thinks. Brienne has always been a deviant, sir, and deserves every punishment you see fit to lay on her."

Brienne barely heard what Mrs Roelle was saying, however, as she was took overcome by one of the members of His Majesty's Militia putting her in chains. Trying to gain control of the situation, she looked up at Lady Catelyn, who was still staring at her with her cool eyes. "Cat!" cried Brienne, "please help me! This is not true! I haven't done anything wrong! Please! I was only trying to help Sansa, your daughter. She hates her husband... she has no money."

Lady Catelyn's nostrils flared. "Don't you dare try and bring my daughter into this! You have defied your duty and brought shame on everyone in this house. And what for?"

The look of barely concealed hatred on Lady Catelyn's and the utter jubilation in Mrs Roelle's eyes finally broke the dam on the well of emotion Brienne was keeping in her heart. In a flash, her panic and sadness turned into a glut of rage and pride.

"For a woman close enough to be my sister, and for the man I love."

Lady Catelyn shook her head. "Then you deserve to hang."

_Six hundred and forty one. Six hundred and forty two..._

Days later, Brienne was staring at the drops of water falling through the crack in the window of her cell in Calton Jail, trying to keep the tide of emotions at bay. She wanted to hold someone's hand, for someone to wrap her in their arms and tell her that everything was going to be alright. She wanted Jaime.

However, the closest she could get to him was by pressing her hand to her stomach and praying.

_He doesn't even know about the baby..._

Brienne did not know how long it had been - days, weeks - until the door of her cell was opened and the jailer, Mord, came in.

"Come on, girl. You've got a visitor."

Brienne did not bother to ask who it was as Mord pulled her to her feet and dragged her out of her cell by her chains. The only person she wanted to see was Jaime, and she reckoned that he too was probably incarcerated somewhere else in this very building, dreaming of her too.

_Perhaps there is a way to escape, _she thought distantly. _Perhaps..._

When Brienne was shoved down into a seat across the table from Lady Catelyn, she could barely bring herself to look up at her guardian who, once, she had loved as well as a mother. Now, Lady Catelyn just gazed at her with hate-filled eyes. It was like watching a poltergeist, an echo of the woman Brienne had once loved.

"What are you doing here?" spat Brienne, not even trying to keep her temper.

Lady Catelyn tilted her head. "I have spoken to the judge who will oversee the Anatomy Murders trial, as well as the other defendants. I have a proposition for you."

For the first time in ages, hope bloomed in Brienne's chest. "What proposition?" she said uneasily.

If Brienne did not know better, she could have sworn that Lady Catelyn smiled. "From my inquiries, I have discovered that it is very likely that you, Mr Hunt, and Mr Payne are only guilty of the lesser crime of bodysnatching, unlike the Kingslayer who is guilty of a terrible murder."

"_Jaime,_" corrected Brienne forcefully, her cheeks reddening. "His name is Jaime. And it was self-defence, it was..."

Lady Catelyn silenced her with a knowing glance. "You seem very fond of this boxer."

Brienne swallowed. She was such an appalling liar that she would have not been able to keep the truth hidden. "So what if I am?"

Lady Catelyn shrugged. "It just leaves you with an interesting choice."

"Choice?" stammered Brienne. "What choice?"

Her eyes empty of anything other than a cold fury, Lady Catelyn leant forward. "You could take the path of least resistance that Mr Hunt and Mr Payne have pursued. If you agree to give evidence against Mr Lannister as the ringleader and sole perpetrator of the Anatomy Murders, Judge Baelish has assured me that you will walk free, and Mr Hunt and Mr Payne will be charged for the lesser offence of bodysnatching."

Brienne swallowed. She could barely believe it. Lady Catelyn was offering her a path to freedom. Yet, not trusting her entirely, Brienne asked, "what does that mean?"

"It means that the maximum sentence for Mr Hunt and Mr Payne will be transportation, and all charges against you will be dropped, because you will appear as a witness for the prosecution."

There was one piece of the puzzle still horribly absent from the picture. "And Jaime?" Lady Catelyn's pupils seemed to dilate suddenly in the dingy light.

"He'll hang as a murderer."

When Lady Catelyn pronounced the words, Brienne felt as if she already had the noose around her neck and was about to swing. In a second of reckless bravery, Brienne thought she would be better to invite death than let this course of events take place. "_Never,_" she spat. "I will _never _testify against Jaime."

All the shadows in the room seemed to coalesce in Lady Catelyn's eyes. "Then all four of you will hang." Even as Brienne's heart tried to explode itself from sheer panic, Lady Catelyn just continued to fix her with that unchanging expression.

"Then we'll all hang," hissed Brienne recklessly.

Lady Catelyn almost smirked at that as she got to her feet. "I would invite you to reconsider. As I know from my own children, this is a cruel world we live in and I am offering you a way out."

"I will not betray him! I will not!"

"If you consider it," Lady Catelyn interjected, "I will talk to the jailer and arrange for you to see Mr Lannister, as soon as his earliest convenience."

_Jaime, _thought Brienne desperately. _Jaime, Jaime, Jaime..._

"You'll let me see him? If I think about your offer?"

"Only if you consider testifying," smirked Lady Catelyn, before waving her hand to indicate that Mord should take Brienne out of her sight until her wayward ward had come to her senses. Yet Brienne barely noticed.

_Jaime._

_I could see Jaime._

_I could tell him about the baby, and he'll have a plan to get us out of here, I know he will._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you this was going to be bittersweet... right?
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter, if you did, please think about letting me know. I love to hear what my readers think of the story!
> 
> Next chapter... Brienne comes face to face with Jaime once more...


	16. Jaime VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne see each other...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I hope you like this chapter; it was a tough one to write. Please let me know how I am doing with a comment; it makes me a better writer.

In some ways, the fever was a blessed relief as it meant Jaime lost all track of time. One day, he was hiding out with Mr Hunt and Pod in the tanner's house, the next day... well, Jaime did not really know where he was.

"It's his hand," came Pod's young voice. The street urchin was leaning over Jaime, carefully running his fingers over Doctor Qyburn's stitches. "It's clearly infected. We are going to have to get him to a doctor."

"A doctor?" scoffed Mr Hunt. "In case you haven't noticed, we are on the run. If we try and find a doctor, we might end up discovering that he's reported us to the militia, and then what will that do for us? We will just have to pray it mends itself and his fever will break."

Some days it felt better - Jaime was able to sit up and talk to his fellow fugitives about the best course of action - while on others he just let himself be washed away by fear, pain, and memory. When he closed his eyes, he saw his father. Tywin Lannister would look down at him disapprovingly, before marching out of the door and never returning. Sometimes, he saw Cersei, sadness on her face as she told him, _Oh Jaime, such romantic wishes will get you killed in a world like this. You always had such a soft heart. _Most of all he saw Brave Danny Flint's blue eyes, as bright and as clear as the ocean. He wondered where she was and hoped she was well. It would break his heart if she was troubled or in danger because of what he had done to Mr Hoat.

Unfortunately, on the day the militia found their hideaway, Jaime was fairly lucid, so he was fully conscious when Captain Slynt read him, Mr Hunt, and Pod the riot act and accused them all of murder. Mr Hunt tried to object - "it wasn't me! I had nothing to do with it! I'm innocent! - but no one seemed to listen to him, even though he would not stop shouting about it. He continued to scream late into the night, even when they had locked him in a cell just down the corridor from Jaime and everyone else had gone to sleep.

"I'm innocent! Please! Listen to me! I had nothing to do with this! I am only a witness! _A witness!"_

_I'm not a witness, _thought Jaime darkly, remembering the hot stickiness of Mr Hoat's blood over his fingers. _I've never been a witness. I plunged my knife into Mr Hoat's guts, just like I did with Aerys. I tell myself that I did it for Brienne, but I didn't, not really. _

_I am a bad man._

_Bad man._

_A rotten apple._

He slept then woke up, slept then woke up, slept then woke up, the sounds of Mr Hunt's protestations eventually quietening in exchange for the distant noise of the city through the small window in Jaime's cell. In pensive moments, he liked to listen to the birds singing and hoped, wherever she was, Brienne could hear them too. When he was at his loneliest, he imagined his wench laid out for him at the _Pennytree Inn, _her smile radiating joy as he slid inside her, her body warm and welcoming as he was overwhelmed by a sense of comfort that he had never found with anyone else before. With her, he was home.

Knowing she was so far away, Jaime cradled his injured hand against his chest and willed the infection to take him. If he died here and now, he would not have to face a trial, and would not have to endure the facts of Hoat's death being trawled over so publicly. Jaime knew that Brienne had said she was glad he had done it, but when the blood and the viscera of the killing was laid bare before her, surely, she would see sense? That he was just as bad as Hoat and deserved nothing more than to hang?

Even so, he hoped he would be able to see her one more time.

_Brienne, my Brave Danny Flint._

The sound of keys rattling in the lock woke him up, and Jaime blinked several times to get accustomed to the dingy light of his cell. In his dreams he had been with Brienne. They had been in a meadow, both healthy and whole, naked as their namedays, rolling in the grass together. She had been holding him in her strong arms, planting gentle kisses on his face, loving him. It had been too sweet, too wonderful, and he had longed to drown in the blue of her eyes. He had heard that drowning was a peaceful death, like falling asleep.

"Wake up," came a worried voice. "Come on. We need to talk." Focussing properly, Jaime suddenly realised that Tyrion was in his cell, holding out a cup of water up to him. "Drink. You look like shit."

"I feel like shit," Jaime replied, before Tyrion brought the cup to his lips and made him drink. It was only when he tasted the liquid that Jaime realised that Tyrion had put a drop of gin in it. Maybe his brother hoped it would serve as pain relief.

"What are you doing here?" asked Jaime eventually, drawing in on himself as Tyrion took the empty cup away. "I did not know I was allowed visitors."

"I bribed the jailer and he let me in," smirked Tyrion, almost proud of himself. "It was either that or pick the lock, and I think my fingers are a little too stubby for that."

Jaime let out a hoarse chuckle. It had been so long since he had laughed that it was a bit of a struggle. "Why did you want to see me?"

Tyrion looked at him confusedly. "You are my brother, you idiot. And we need to get you out of here."

"But I'm..." _A murderer._

"Don't say anything, nothing that will give anyone ammunition in a trial anyway," said Tyrion, beginning to pace the room. "We've got to get hold of a lawyer for you. I have no idea how much they are, but I dug up the box of cash you thought you had been hiding from me in the garden and that, plus a bit of money I have, might be enough to get someone who can at least defend you half decently. I, personally, think the best course of action is to try and stick it on Mr Hunt..."

Jaime stopped listening at that statement. While on the run, he had spent several weeks in Mr Hunt and Pod's company and, although Pod had been the more caring and concerned companion, it had been Mr Hunt that he kept them alive. He had fetched the wood and the water, he had set traps for animals, liaised with his sister to make sure their hideout stayed as safe for as long as possible, while Jaime rotted away in feverish daydreams. It would not be right to have Mr Hunt hang in his place; he was an innocent man.

"No," rasped Jaime, "we won't do that."

"Why not?" replied Tyrion. "Mr Hunt was in the room with you. Who was to know it was him and not you that killed Mr Hoat? If we acted quickly and got you the right lawyer, we could be building a case against him. We could be..."

"No. Stop," ordered Jaime. "I won't frame Mr Hunt for something he did not do. He's innocent, as is Pod and... and... _her_..." Jaime took some deep breaths, trying not to let the extent of his worry show on his face. "Is she safe? Please tell me they haven't caught her."

Tyrion's face darkened suddenly, like an oncoming summer storm. "If you are referring to Miss Brienne Tarth, I am very sorry to say that they brought her in a few days ago. I believe she is in one of the comfier cells upstairs."

Jaime would have felt better if Tyrion had punched him. "No... she's innocent. They can't do this to her... you've got to get her out. Get her out of here!"

Tyrion narrowed his eyes at his brother. "What do you expect me to do?"

"Use the money on a lawyer for _her,_" said Jaime ferociously. "She's got her whole life ahead of her and is far, _far _too good to die on account of the likes of me."

Tyrion just scoffed at that suggestion. "Don't be ridiculous. We are going to use this money to get _you _free."

Even as his irritation built, Jaime tried to sound reasonable. "No. What do I matter? I'm just a murderer from the slums. She is loyal, intelligent, strong, a real lady, _my lady._ She deserves better than to die on a hangman's noose."

"Are you saying you do?" snapped Tyrion suddenly.

"Do what?"

"Deserve to die?" replied Tyrion, his eyes flashing. "Because if that is what you are trying to say, I would bid you be quiet. If it weren't for you, I never would have survived my childhood."

Jaime shook his head dismissively. "You would have."

"No, I wouldn't have," said Tyrion earnestly, kneeling down next to Jaime, and turning his face to look him in the eye. "You were the only one who didn't treat me like a monster. You were all I had; you raised me, you cared for me, fed me. You sacrificed your own schooling so I could go. You _loved _me, like no one else ever has and for that reason you deserve the absolute best, because you are a _good man._"

Tears threatened to overwhelm Jaime at that moment, so he tried to look away. "If you must insist I am a good man, then please do not waste your time trying to save me. Get Brienne out. She has a friend in London - a Mrs Bolton - who lives under the tyranny of a terrible husband. Take the money and make a new life for yourself, for all three of you, somewhere far away from here where you can be happy."

"Stop being so stubborn!" Tyrion exclaimed; his voice filled with frustration.

"I'm not being stubborn, I'm being realistic," replied Jaime seriously. "What do you honestly think is going to happen? They are going to threaten all four of us with a murder charge, when I was the only one who killed Hoat..."

"Jaime!" whispered Tyrion, trying to clap a hand over his brother's mouth. "Someone may be listening."

Tyrion's refusal to see the obvious was trying Jaime's patience. "I don't care, because the whole of Edinburgh will know sooner or later. Pod and Mr Hunt will be so terrified of the noose that they are bound to babble the truth eventually, and although Brienne will declare until her dying day that I am innocent of all charges, the jury will believe the testimony of two grown men over that of one woman."

"But she's _posh," _insisted Tyrion, "and Mr Hunt and Pod are both from the gutter, just like we are. The jury will believe her."

Jaime sighed, the weight of the truth suddenly feeling very heavy. "But don't you see? The prosecution will use that against me. They'll say she's a fallen woman, that I reduced her, seduced her, and see that as just part of my bad character. And I won't have that. I won't have her reputation ruined for _me,_not when mine is in the dirt. So, please, if you love me Tyrion, I just ask that you do everything in your power to look after _her. _There is no way out of this for me... I know that... but Brienne has a chance. Promise me you will do everything in your power to look after her."

Tyrion's eyes glistened with tears. "Jaime, listen to me, I have a plan..."

The door of the cell swung open; it was Mord the Jailer. "Time is up. Get out."

"I need to talk to my brother, give me a few more minutes," cried Tyrion, even as Mord lifted him off his feet and started dragging him out of the room.

Knowing this was possibly his final opportunity, Jaime shouted, "promise me, Tyrion. _Promise me."_

Just as Mord threw Tyrion out of the cell, Jaime heard his brother's response.

"I promise!"

* * *

Whenever Jaime slept, he was haunted by dreams; of Edinburgh ablaze, of Mr Hunt and Pod swinging from the gallows, of Brienne's blue eyes filled with tears. Sometimes, he was able to wipe them away, by cupping her cheeks with his hands and kissing her. Sometimes it was her that soothed him, stroking his hair and telling him everything would be well.

"Jaime, can you hear me?"

"Jaime."

"Jaime?"

Waking up, he found himself looking into the endless blue of the ocean, with warm comforting hands on his face. It took him a second to realise he was no longer dreaming. "Brienne?"

Tears spilt down her cheeks the second he said her name. "Oh, my love," she whispered, "I am here. What have they done to you?" She tried to get a closer look at his hand, which was red and inflamed with infection, but he pulled away, not wanting her to see the darkest parts of himself.

"Brienne, you are here," he affirmed, and at her affectionate smile he let her draw him into her arms. She was wearing a dress, like she had been during their evening at the _Pennytree Inn. _"My lady."

"My love," she murmured sweetly into his hair. "Oh my darling. Have you had anything to eat? You look so pale. This cell isn't good for you."

Jaime hummed in amusement. "No, this cell isn't good for me, but I suspect that is the point. It's meant to be a punishment."

Her voice sounded sad and strained as she said, "but you've done nothing wrong."

"We both know that is not true," he replied, squeezing her. "And it doesn't matter anyway. What is important is that _you _get out of here."

She began to draw slow circles on his back as she said, "I have been offered a deal, but I am not going to take it."

He looked up at her, tilting his head with curiosity. "What deal?"

"Lady Catelyn wants me to name you as Mr Hoat's murderer," she sighed. "In exchange, she will arrange for me to go free, and Mr Hunt and Mr Payne to be done on the lesser charge of bodysnatching, but I won't do it."

Jaime gazed at her - his mad, mystifying wench - and wondered why she would not take the offer, the best she could hope for in all this darkness. "Why not? It will mean you are free."

She gave him an incredulous look. "But you'll hang."

In the weeks of fevered running and hiding, living and dying, Jaime had come to know this was the only way it would end. There was no escape for him, not even a deal offered by Lady Stoneheart herself would wrench the noose from his neck. So, if she could buy her freedom with his life, he did not see it being all that great a sacrifice. Somewhere, deep inside his memories, came the voice of his long dead mother, singing him a folk song.

_Are you, are you, coming to the tree?_

_Where dead man called out for his love to flee?_

_Strange things did happen here, _

_No stranger would it be_

_If we met at midnight_

_In the hanging tree._

"Yes, I'll hang," he conceded, "but that is going to happen anyway. Better you get something out of it; a chance."

At that statement, Brienne started crying harder, "but I don't want a chance without you. We will get out of here together, or not at all."

"Don't make your loyalty suicidal," he murmured, trying to soothe her with the warmth of his dying body. "And don't make it homicidal either. By doing this, you can save Pod and Mr Hunt as well. _Innocent people, _who don't deserve to die."

"_You _don't deserve to die. You are a good man."

In spite of himself, Jaime smiled. "You sound so much like my brother Tyrion. He was telling me the same thing when he was in here."

"Well, Tyrion is right! You _are _a good man, and you deserve to be free."

Cersei's smile came to his mind, endlessly knowing. "What people deserve and what people get is often not the same thing, wench. But you should know I have talked to Tyrion. I told him about your plan to help Mrs Bolton, and he promised me he would help you. Once you are free, go and find him, and together you can help Sansa. You might be able to afford a ticket to America, or..."

"No," snapped Brienne, interrupting him, her eyes bright. "_We _will go to America. The two of us."

It was a beautiful dream and Jaime let himself be washed away by it for a moment. "Will we?"

"Yes," declared Brienne, cradling his head with her hand. "We'll get a plot of land. It will be somewhere pretty by the sea, so you can see the ocean. You would like that, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," mumbled Jaime, wrapping his good arm around her waist. "The sea; the colour of your eyes. Tell me more."

She took a deep breath and Jaime found himself mirroring her, wanting their bodies to be in time with one another. "We'll have a little garden for growing vegetables; carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, whatever you want. We could even get a fruit tree."

"What kind?"

Brienne thought about it before saying, "I like oranges. They're sweet."

"Let's get an orange tree, then," agreed Jaime. "What will the house be like?"

"It will be a farmer's cottage," Brienne smiled and Jaime let himself believe her, "with two floors, a big kitchen with a fire so hot that if we wanted to have a bath, we could set it out in front of the grate to keep warm. We'd have our own bedroom too, with a bed covered in quilt blankets just for the two of us, so we can wrap up warm together in the winter."

"Would you let me lie with you in our bed?" asked Jaime, remembering their time at the _Pennytree Inn. _"Would we get married? Would you let me put a baby in you?" That topic was so often the subject of his dreams that now it was not possible, it would be enough to know that it was what she wanted. Instead, Brienne suddenly went quite tense.

"Jaime, I..."

He looked up at her, trying not to cry. "You wouldn't want that? A baby with me?"

Brienne bit her lip nervously, before taking his good arm from her waist. It felt like the greatest rejection that Jaime had ever suffered until she pushed his hand against her belly. "We already have that."

He gulped. "What?"

"At the _Pennytree Inn, _you... finished inside me. I meant to get some pennyroyal, but with everything that has gone on I forgot. I haven't bled for two moons."

Jaime's eyes went wide. "You are going to have my baby? I am going to be a father?"

Brienne nodded, her expression wavering between happiness and fear. "Are you pleased?"

"Overjoyed," he beamed, even though he was sitting in a damp prison cell with his hand rotting off, a scaffold being built for him. "I am so unbelievably happy."

"Then you should have the chance to be a father!" she insisted. "We will raise our child together, and then we will have more. Five, six, seven, eight! However many you want! I want to give that to you; I want that with you..."

It was a lovely dream. Lovely, but dead.

"I want nothing more than that either, wench, but we _can't_." He could see that she understood, that their dreams were dust and the cold hard truth was the only path ahead, but even so she kept crying. There was only one way out of this. "Please promise me you will testify against me to save yourself and our child."

"But what about my honour?" she sobbed. "What about our love?"

"This is honour _and _love," said Jaime gently. "You are honouring my love for you by letting yourself and our child have a chance. Without that, there is nothing but death for all three of us. There is no need for that, wench. No need at all."

She leant forward to kiss him and he could taste the salt of her tears on her lips. "Jaime," she said resolutely when they broke apart. He loved that she honoured him with the truth of his own name. "I love you so much."

"I love you too, Brienne," he replied, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Now, I do not wish to spend my last moments with you arguing. Kiss me."

She obeyed without another word. In the gloom of that little cell, Miss Brienne Tarth took him in her arms and kissed him without restraint, telling him with the unending warmth of her body how much she loved him. When the jailer did not immediately return for her, she stuck her hand down his breeches and rubbed his cock, and until it was full and hard with want. As a last gift, she brought him off in her hand, while he buried his face in her neck, taking in the familiar smell of her.

Jaime felt he should give her something in return.

Picking up the knife he had been given for eating, he cut her a lock of his hair, just as she had done for him back at the _Pennytree Inn. _He put it in a scrap of hemp rag he had found in the cell, before wrapping it up and giving it to her.

"Take this as a token," he said gently, "and remember that we loved each other."

"_Love _each other," she corrected firmly, before the jailer came to take her away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked that, even though it is very sad :( The "folk song" was of course "Hanging Tree" from Hunger Games, but I thought it fit so well that I had to include it.
> 
> As ever, a comment is great (even if it is to tell me how evil I am)! I promise the next story (whether it is Ice Cream Anthology Part 5 or Big Cop 2), will be much lighter and fluffier.


	17. Jaime VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime has to face his fate...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so everyone seems to be very sad about the last chapter, so I thought I would not drag it out too long. I hope you enjoy this one, and if you do, please consider leaving a comment or kudos, because I love to know what you think!

As his trial started at the Edinburgh Crown Court, Jaime got out the handkerchief that contained the lock of Brienne's hair, desperate to hold onto the love and affection that she had shown him in his prison cell. The memory of her was the only semblance of warmth he was going to find in the courthouse; he knew full well that Petyr Baelish would pass sentences based on whoever paid him the most, while the fifteen jurors were all amongst Edinburgh's most respectable gentlemen. Why would they take pity on the likes of Jaime Lannister, bastard son who was born in the slums?

The only witness for the defence was Tyrion, who tried to give his brother a glowing character reference. However, the court refused to supply something for Tyrion to stand on, so he did not reach over the lectern from which was expected to expound upon Jaime's virtues. Consequently, the jurors ended up laughing at the cruel jape and Tyrion was left shamed face. All the same, Jaime smiled at him thankfully for trying as his heartbroken looking brother was led out.

The witnesses for the prosecution were so much more persuasive. Pod was brought out to explain the background to the bodysnatching and, by making it clear he was only there in the capacity as Mr Flint's servant, was able to extricate himself from most of the wildest accusations.

"Who was the one to suggest the gravedigging as a money maker, Mr Payne?" asked the prosecutor, fixing the quivering Pod with a stern look.

"Err..." said Pod tentatively, trying to remember his script. "Mr Lannister, sir. He forced Miss Tarth to go along with it." Pod gave Jaime a guilt ridden gaze, both of them knowing it was a lie, but Jaime just replied with a subtle nod of the head, encouraging him.

_Save Brienne, _he mentally commanded Pod. _She is much more important than me. Save her and I will be forever in your debt, Mr Payne._

Mr Hunt was much more convincing. One hundred percent committed to saving his own neck, the bookmaker explained everything that had happened on the night Jaime killed Mr Hoat, with intricate detail. Even though it thoroughly condemned him, Jaime could not contradict any of it, because it was all true.

The prosecutor stepped forward, an interested look on his face. "Mr Hunt, do you happen to know _why _Mr Lannister killed Mr Hoat?"

Just as Pod had been informed of the plan by a series of surreptitious messages sent by the corrupt jailer, Mord, so had Mr Hunt, and consequently he played his role with aplomb. "There was a woman, Miss Brienne Tarth, that he was obsessed with. He thought Mr Hoat was stepping on his turf in relation to this lady. I don't know if Mr Hoat _did _have designs on the young woman, but Mr Lannister certainly thought he did. The whole time of my acquaintance with the Kingslayer, I knew there was something not right about his feelings for Miss Tarth."

With his testimony alluding to his relationship with Brienne being something dark and twisted set the stage perfectly for the prosecution's star witness: Brave Danny Flint. As she took the stand, Jaime thought Brienne was every inch the lady she had always vehemently denied she was. She was wearing a long blue dress with an empire line, and her hair sat loose around her shoulders. For a moment, she was the very image of a goddess.

"Miss Tarth," the prosecutor began, his voice soft where he had been hard with Pod and Hyle. "Can you please inform us of the nature of your relationship with Mr Lannister?"

Brienne bit her lip in the way she often did when she was nervous or unsure of what to say. In her moment of weakness, she glanced at Jaime and he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Some of the jurors tutted at that; they clearly thought him lecherous.

_Let them, _thought Jaime. _Let them paint me the Kingslayer if it will make them happy and save her reputation. Only Brienne and I truly know what is going on in our hearts._

"The nature of our relationship?" began Brienne delicately, before dropping her eyes to the floor. "There _was _no relationship. He wanted me and I did not want him. I tried to fight him off, but there is no stopping the Kingslayer when he is in heat. Mr Hoat wanted me too... and Jaime... I mean the Kingslayer grew jealous. That's why he killed Mr Hoat. And he was capable of it too, because he is very strong, much stronger than me."

Jaime knew that was a lie. He remembered how well matched they had been when he had taught her how to fight in _The Sellsword, _how strong she had been when carrying a dead body halfway across the city, when she had fucked him so completely into submission that he had given her everything he was, everything he had. Brienne clearly knew it too, as her cheeks were red with shame as she looked back at him when her testimony was over.

_I love you, _thought Jaime, hoping against all hope that she would somehow see what he felt in his face.

He guessed that she did, because as she was escorted from the court room, he saw _I love you too _in her eyes.

Either way, it did not matter, because Brienne had shown her love and devotion to him in another way. She had done everything he had asked of her. The decision of the jury was unanimous.

"Jaime Lannister, you will be taken hence to the prison in which you were last confined and from there to a place of execution where you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead and therefore your body will be placed under the jurisdiction of the Royal Society. May the Lord have mercy upon your soul."

When he was led from the courtroom, Jaime swore he could hear the sound of a woman crying. He hoped it was not Brienne.

* * *

The day of the hanging was unfairly beautiful. The sun was bright in the sky and the birds were singing. Even though the authorities sent Jaime a chaplain, if he so wished to unburden his conscience, Jaime did not really pay attention to him but, instead, looked outside the window and listened to the birds.

_I wonder if she can hear them? _thought Jaime.

He was taken in a carriage from the prison to the Grassmarket, where the execution was to be carried out. Jaime was thankful for that, as the streets were lined with people who were coming to see him die. Some took to throwing vegetables at the carriage, and he could hear their shouting.

"Kingslayer!"

"Murdering bastard!"

"Raper! Raper!"

_Fitting, _he thought, _that the Kingslayer's reputation is damaged right until the end, while Aerys Targaryen's was gilded._

Captain Slynt dragged him out of the carriage by his manacles, which hurt Jaime's injured hand immensely. Even so, he tried not to show his pain or fear.

_Die well, _he told himself. _That is all that is left for you. And, anyway, she would not want to see you in pain. By dying gracefully, you make this easier for her too._

Although the militia tried to keep the crowd back, as Jaime was pulled along the street by Captain Slynt, the furious onlookers tried to get at him. Without the soldiers there, Jaime was certain they would have ripped him to pieces in the middle of the street.

"Kingslayer!" shouted a fat man who thought he was being original, before spitting in Jaime's face.

He tried to think of Brienne's warm hands cradling his cheeks, and the feeling of her kissing his head, her breathe running through his hair.

When they reached the gallows, Captain Slynt handed Jaime over to the executioner. Even though he was covered by a black hood, Jaime knew it was Ilyn Payne, the famed silent executioner. Surprisingly, Mr Payne treated him with much more gentleness than Captain Slynt had. As Jaime's legs started to shake, Mr Payne supported him up the stairs and instructed him to stand over the trapdoor entirely through gesture. Jaime closed his eyes as Mr Payne put the noose around his neck, hoping to hear the birds. Instead, all he got was the shouts and jeers of the crowd.

"Kingslayer!"

_"Kingslayer!"_

_"KINGSLAYER!"_

It was the same old taunts so even here, right at the end, the image of Brienne and her kind eyes were replaced by Aerys Targaryen and his whispering madness.

_Burn them all... burn them all..._

Jaime only opened his eyes when he heard a creak. As Mr Payne was mute, an assistant executioner, a local boy, had come up onto the gallows behind him in order to read the sentence. Not wanting to look at either of the men who would kill him, Jaime gazed out into the crowd hoping to see a familiar face.

He was rewarded.

A stand had been set up for the most high ranking gawkers, so they could get a good view of Jaime Lannister's neck snapping. Right at the centre, immediately noticeable because of her violently red hair, was the woman once known as Lady Catelyn Stark. She was wearing a rich black dress and a matching veil, drawn across her face. Although he was at quite a distance, he could have sworn she was smiling.

To Jaime, it was like the devil and an angel had decided to sit together to watch him die because beside Lady Catelyn, wearing a demure blue dress looking every bit the virginal young maiden she had always tried not to be, was Brienne. Jaime hoped that hiding behind that feminine visage, by going away inside, she would be able to withstand the worst of all this.

He was pulled back into the reality of his own situation when the assistant executioner spoke. "Jaime Lannister, for your crimes against the Crown, including bodysnatching, rape, and murder, you are sentenced to be hung by the neck until dead. If you have any last words, speak now or forever hold your peace."

Taking a breath - deep and long and full of life - Jaime turned to the crowd, trying to meet her gaze. For once, the rabble was quiet. He almost found it difficult to start when he found she was staring at him with her blue eyes, but he knew if... if this was his last opportunity to say anything...

"I did it for love. For my wench. For Brave Danny Flint."

Even all this distance away, Jaime heard her sob.

Mr Payne crossed towards the lever, as the assistant executioner gave Jaime a nod that was surprisingly sympathetic. "May God have mercy on your soul."

_The birdsong, _Jaime thought, trying to keep his panic under control. _Brienne's kiss. Brienne holding my hand. Brienne... Brienne..._

The assistant executioner walked back down the stairs. It was well known that if the fall would not break the criminal's neck, it was his job to pull down on the condemned's ankles in order to end his agony quicker. Jaime did not believe in God, but he suddenly felt the compulsion to pray. Closing his eyes once more, Jaime clasped his hands together and tried to focus on keeping himself calm.

_Brienne, I love you. I am doing this for you. Look after our child, I know you can do it. You will make a brilliant mother, you will..._

"Stop! Stop!"

Jaime opened his eyes to find that Brienne was on her feet, her eyes wide. "Sword!" she screamed at the gentleman sitting in front of her on the stand. "Give me your sword!"

When he just looked at her in confusion, Brienne gave him an almighty shove before stealing his sword from his belt and vaulting over the front of the stand into the crowd. The audience scattered, seemingly stunned by the sudden turn towards the theatrical. For the first time in weeks, Jaime felt a thrill of hope.

_She'll save me, _he thought madly as he watched Brienne push through the crowd, her sword raised high in the air, almost glowing with a blue light against the grey sky.

_My Brienne, she's coming for me. She won't let me die. My lady, my love, my Brienne._

The leaver was pulled.

_Brienne..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for reading. I hope you liked it. If you did (or didn't) please consider leaving a comment!
> 
> The next (and final) chapter... The Aftermath...


	18. Brienne X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Aftermath...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... here is the last chapter. It's a bit of a monster, and I really hope you like it. If you do (or if you don't), I would love to hear from you in a comment!

For once, Brienne was thankful that her body decided to react in the way a proper young lady ought to when witnessing such a horror. By swooning, she did not have to hear the crowd's cheers, nor the sickening snap, nor see the rope go taut with his weight. As she fell to the ground, her sword clattered out of her hand and her eyes rolled back into her head.

She was grateful, as by playing the fainting damsel, Brienne did not have to watch Jaime die.

* * *

Somewhere far away, Brienne could smell something citrusy. It was the only thing she had to hold onto, so she followed it, seeking it out. When she opened her eyes, she came to regret that choice, as she discovered it was just Mrs Roelle waving a pomander under her nose while Brienne was lying on her bed.

"Get up," her governess ordered. "You made a public spectacle of yourself at the execution, what with all that silly ridiculousness with the sword. It's just lucky for you that Lady Catelyn has enough influence to convince everyone that you thought you saw a pickpocket. However, there's a Society meeting later today, so you are going to show your face and..."

Not having any more patience for her governess' casual cruelty, Brienne slapped the pomander out of Mrs Roelle's hand with all the force she could muster. It flew into the wardrobe, exploding into a thousand feathery pieces. Mrs Roelle looked at her charge with such fury that Brienne was surprised she did not burst into flames, but she cut her off before she could say anything.

"If you think I am going anywhere with you and Stoneheart then you're sick in the head, you evil bitch."

Mrs Roelle's mouth dropped open in shock. "Brienne..."

"Shut up!" screamed Brienne, suddenly finding her voice. "The two of you are entirely to blame for the fact that Jaime is... Jaime is..."

Reeling from Brienne's words, Mrs Roelle tried to regain what she thought was her natural place in the hierarchy by adopting an imperious tone. "He was just some dreg from the gutter..."

Her beautiful Jaime, sick and pale, wrapped in her arms in his jail cell as she told him about a better future, came to her mind. "He was _not _some dreg from the gutter; he was brave, and kind, and good and loving. I loved him. _I loved him. _And you _murdered _him." Brienne screams had turned to sobs as she berated her governess, the woman who had been her jailer and tormentor for the whole of her life. "You killed my love and for what? To punish me? If you hated me that much, why didn't you kill me instead?"

Mrs Roelle raised herself to her full height (which was admittedly not very tall) and stared down at Brienne who was still sitting on the bed. "He was a murderer. He killed Mr Hoat..."

"Because that animal tried to attack me!" sobbed Brienne, leaping from her position to tower over Mrs Roelle. "Jaime wanted me to be safe, he _kept _me safe. He was kind to me, he was..."

"He's dead," said Mrs Roelle coldly, "and it's better that way. Considering everything that has happened, we should get you a husband, someone better than dead scum."

The thought of anyone else touching her but Jaime made Brienne feel so ill that all of her emotions exploded from her at once. Bringing her hand up, she brought it crashing down onto Mrs Roelle's cheek, which nearly knocked the woman off her feet.

Steadying herself, Mrs Roelle spat, "how dare you?"

"How dare I?" wept Brienne, crazed and manic. "I dare because my love is _dead, _and what else is there to live for?"

Mrs Roelle's lip curled into a snarl. "For once in your life you will do what is expected of you! You will get married, lie back and think of England, and keep your mouth shut! It is what a respectable young lady must do."

Brienne laughed bitterly, "it's a good thing I am not a respectable young lady then, isn't it?"

"You could be," began Mrs Roelle, "you could..."

Trying to channel some of Jaime's arrogance, Brienne smirked, "no. I think respectable young ladies are meant to have a hymen, are they not?"

Mrs Roelle blanched. "What?"

Brienne's crazed grin grew bigger, "and I suspect that respectable young ladies are not meant to fuck boxers from the wrong side of town and get pregnant with their children."

If Mrs Roelle had looked pale before, now she looked like a ghost. It took her a few seconds of opening and closing her mouth in disbelief and horror before she found the wherewithal to summon some words. "You _whore._"

"The _Kingslayer's _whore," replied Brienne furiously. "And proud of it. Now get out!"

Clearly having no idea what to say to that, Mrs Roelle stammered, "I will tell Lady Catelyn. I will..."

"Please do!" thundered Brienne, throwing herself back onto the bed. "I want everyone to know! _I fucked Jaime Lannister, and I loved it._"

For the first time in all the years that Brienne had known her governess, Mrs Roelle looked terrified as well as scandalised. "You can't embarrass us like this. You will bring Lady Catelyn and myself down with you."

"Good," spat Brienne. "Now, did you not hear me? Get out, before I throw you out."

* * *

The servants kept trying to bring her food, but Brienne would always send them away. Once, she even threw a bowl of chicken soup across the room when one of the footmen had told her that Mrs Roelle had instructed him to force feed her. Brienne didn't want to eat; she wanted to be with Jaime, and not eating seemed the best way of going about it. Consumed by grief, she stayed in her bed, weeping. Occasionally, she could find the strength to cross the room to her chamber pot where she would vomit. As there was nothing in her stomach, she just brought up yellow bile.

_Good, _she thought. _It will be quicker._

There was a small part of Brienne that wanted to stay alive - for her baby, for Sansa - but she felt so utterly defeated that she did not think she had the power to go on. Consequently, she just hid under her covers in the warm, trying to find delight in imagining Jaime's kisses as she waited for the end.

One night, she felt the weight of someone sitting at the foot of her bed.

_Go away. You're not really here._

_No, wench, I won't leave you. What are you doing?_

_I'm dying. That's what I want. I won't eat, then I'll die, and then we'll be together._

_You can't die. You need to live._

_I don't care about living._

_You coward. One misfortune and you are giving up?_

_Misfortune? My love, I watched you..._

_You have a taste, one taste of the real world and you whine, and you cry, and you quit. What about our child? What about Sansa? What about your dreams of leaving Edinburgh? Of the house in America with the orange tree? Of the blue of the sea?_

_What does all that matter?_

_All that matters because _you _matter, my love. _

_But you are gone..._

_I'm not half of you. You can live as a whole complete person without me. _

_But I don't want to!_

_But you will. Honour my sacrifice, my love, by living..._

The next morning, Brienne woke up early and washed her face, before packing a bag only of the things she would really need. When the servants arrived with a plate of food, she wolfed it all down as quickly as she could, then changed into the most comfortable dress she owned. Once she was ready, she marched up to Lady Catelyn's study, not bothering to knock. As expected, Lady Catelyn and Mrs Roelle were inside, whispering. Without deferring to custom or etiquette, Brienne marched towards them both, until she was standing right in front of Lady Catelyn, staring down at her. She was expecting some sort of reaction, considering everything that had happened, but instead her guardian would not play ball, and just looked at her impassively.

"I want five hundred pounds," said Brienne resolutely, trying to keep her anger at bay.

Mrs Roelle outright laughed at that demand, but Lady Catelyn did not. She just kept observing Brienne with her cold eyes. "What for?"

"I am going to leave Edinburgh, tonight, and you will never have to see me again. I won't bring shame on this house by bearing a bastard, and you can spread the rumour that I have died of the flu, or the pox, or being hit by a cart, whatever you want."

Lady Catelyn's eyes flickered. "Why would I do that?"

Brienne remembered a nine year old girl with a spaniel who had been welcomed into the Stark's house so warmly, headed by Lady Catelyn. "Because you cared for me once, Cat, and now you owe it to me to let me go. It would be the honourable thing to do."

Even though Mrs Roelle was staring at her employer intently, Lady Catelyn did not look her way. Instead, her eyes were only for Brienne. The two women held their gaze for several seconds, Brienne trying to weigh up whether she had played this card incorrectly or not. Was Cat Stark really gone forever, replaced by the monstrous Lady Stoneheart?

The tension only broke when Lady Catelyn opened her desk drawer and pulled out a black silk purse.

* * *

It took some time to find the little house, given that night had begun to fall, and, in the slums, all the buildings looked the same. However, Brienne eventually felt she was in the right place as the crooked two story house that she now found herself standing in front of seemed to fit the description she had been given by a passer-by.

_Jaime's house, _she thought wistfully as she knocked on the door. _Jaime lived here, once..._

When Tyrion Lannister opened the door, Brienne was overwhelmed by the smell of alcohol, and taken aback by his expression, which was somewhat like thunder.

"What are you doing here?" he glowered.

"Can I come in?"

"No," spat Tyrion, "not when you lied about Jaime on the stand and did nothing to defend him."

Almost protectively, Brienne rested her hand on her stomach. The four prisoners of Calton Jail had been able to formulate a plan together, but it had not been possible to include Tyrion, hence his defence of his brother at the trial. All things considered, Brienne thought his reaction was therefore justified, but even so, she knew she had to persuade him of her love for his brother if she was going to fulfil Jaime's wishes.

_Give him that pretty smile of yours, wench, _came Jaime's voice from far away. _He won't be able to resist._

"I have something to show you." Reaching into her pocket, Brienne brought out a handkerchief. Unwrapping it, she unveiled the lock of gold hair that Jaime had given her the last time she had seen him. She was determined to keep it as a personal relic for the rest of her life.

"Is that...?" began Tyrion, reaching out with his stubby fingers tentatively.

"A lock of his hair, yes," said Brienne gently. "He gave it to me the last night we were alone together... in his cell."

"Why?" asked Tyrion confusedly.

"It was a prize for making my promise."

"What promise?"

Biting her lip, Brienne tried to hold back the tears. "He made me promise to testify against him at the trial, because otherwise the authorities were going to hang all four of us. And... and... he wanted me and our child to have a chance. He wanted me to honour his love for me by living."

Tyrion's mismatched eyes were filled with tears as he looked up at her. "Your... your... child?"

Brienne cradled her stomach once more and Tyrion's gazed dropped to observe the almost imperceptible swell. "I am nearly three months gone."

Wiping his eyes with his sleeve, Tyrion nodded. "Well, you'd better come in then."

Obeying without another word, Brienne's followed Jaime's little brother into the house and then went and sat in a chair he indicated towards. Inside, Brienne could see the house was small, cramped, and dark, a world away from the glamour of Winterfell House.

_It must not have mattered there was no light, _Brienne told herself. _Because he shone with all the power of the stars._

Tyrion poured himself a drink (which Brienne suspected was gin) before sitting down in a chair opposite her. "I made him promises too," he said bluntly, his voice croaky.

Something unseen clutched at her heart. She did not know how she felt about this situation, being allowed to see behind the curtain into the part of Jaime's life she was always at a remove from. Nevertheless, Brienne treasured it. "What promises?"

"That I would look after you," said Tyrion, taking a swig of drink. "Jaime..." he tried to continue, the name catching in his throat. "Jaime was saving money for some time. He had some mad plan that he would take my sister and I to America. I dug up the money he had saved before the trial; it's barely enough to cover two tickets."

"I have five hundred pounds," blurted Brienne.

Tyrion nearly fell off his chair. "Five... five hundred pounds? How?"

"It doesn't matter," replied Brienne quickly, not wanting Tyrion to think that Lady Catelyn still had a hold over her. "All I know, is that I intend to take that money and use it to get out of the country. It is enough for tickets _and _to buy some land... somewhere near the sea."

Tyrion looked at her confusedly. "We?"

"Yes," nodded Brienne, trying to keep the knot of desperation in her stomach at bay. "You and me. I made him a promise, and so did you. I will honour his memory by living, you will look after me. And then there is the child to think of. All things considered, it seems the best way for us to continue to honour our love him is for you to come with me. Help me raise his child, because I will find it very hard to do alone."

Tyrion's mouth dropped open in a little 'O' of shock. "You want my help? _My _help?"

Brienne smiled at him, seeing some of Jaime's shaky self-confidence in his brother. "Of course. You are his brother, the only person I would trust to love Jaime's child as much as I would."

The emotion of her request getting to him, Tyrion had to clear his throat before he asked, "when would we leave?"

"As soon as possible," replied Brienne, which she was happy to note caused Tyrion to break into a little smile. "I just think that with Jaime... gone, we must do all we can for the child to make sure his father's memory is kept alive, and you knew Jaime much longer than I did. I cannot do this without your help."

A look of revelation on his face, Tyrion put his glass down and stretched his hand towards Brienne, which she took. "I promise you; I will do everything in my power to help you raise my brother's child."

A tear rolled down Brienne's cheek. "Thank you."

Tyrion gave her palm a little squeeze before saying, "so, what is the plan?"

* * *

Brienne and Tyrion took the stagecoach down to London, just as she had so many years ago when first arriving in the city; Edinburgh to Berwick, Berwick to Newcastle, Newcastle to York, York to Doncaster, Doncaster to Grantham, Grantham to Peterborough, Peterborough to Cambridge, and then, finally, Cambridge to London. Tyrion rented a room in a rundown little inn by the docks in Wapping and the two of them sat eating dinner together on their first night there outlining what was to happen.

"Tomorrow," began Brienne, "I will go to Mrs Bolton's house in the City. I will arrange for her to come out for a walk with me if her husband is in the house, but instead of wandering along the Serpentine we will come here. We'll spend one night at this inn, the three of us, then the day after, we will get on the first ship to America and be out of here. Agreed?"

Tyrion weighed her proposition up, tilting his head as if watching their options bob up and down on a set of scales. "What if her husband comes after us?"

"Then I'm afraid to say but we'll all be done for," replied Brienne.

Tyrion smirked in a way that echoed Jaime for a transient instant. "Thanks for your honesty."

"If you have the misfortune of meeting Ramsay Bolton, I assure you that you would want to be warned about it."

The next day, Brienne arose early to make the walk across town to see Sansa. She had not sent forewarning, so when Mrs Bolton opened to front door to find Brienne waiting for her, Sansa almost burst into tears with happiness.

"Oh Brienne!" she cried, wrapping her arms around her friend's neck. "It is so good to see you! It has been so long! Why are you down in London?"

"To see you of course!" grinned Brienne, "and to tell you all about my latest schemes. Where is your husband?"

Sansa tensed slightly at that question. "He's gone out to meet a business associate in Fulham. He shouldn't be back until this evening."

That made Brienne very, very relieved. "Good. It gives us more time."

Sansa looked very perplexed until Brienne bundled her inside and explained what exactly was going on. "I'm here to save you."

Sansa smiled at her so beautifully that Brienne's heart soared in a way it hadn't since Jaime's death. "Today? Right now?"

"Yes, but we've got to move quickly. Let's go and pack you a bag."

Brienne laid out the plan to Sansa - the inn, the ship, America - as they were picking which of her belongings to take, making sure to leave out the details about Tyrion and the baby. Brienne knew they would all come up in their own good time. Once they were packed, Sansa almost ran to the front door, and Brienne had to hold her back and persuade her to look casual. It would do them no good to get caught because they looked suspicious.

_Well done, wench, _came Jaime's voice. _You are doing admirably._

On their walk across the city, Sansa finally summoned the courage to ask the question that had clearly been on her mind for a while. "The reason you have come now, is it because of what happened back in Edinburgh?"

Brienne stiffened. "I do not know what you mean."

Sensing the tension, Sansa tried to make her tone softer. "Oh, it's just I read in the newspaper about the Anatomy Murders. I wanted to write, but I did not know what to say. It pains me so much to think of you under the sway of a horrible man like that... that... Mr Lannister."

_This is honour and love, _Jaime had told her. Brienne tried to hold onto that pronouncement, even when everything felt dishonourable and hateful. "You shouldn't believe everything you read in the papers, Sansa."

Once they arrived back at the inn, they found Tyrion had ordered them a table in the dining room and three huge meat pies. For the first time in days, Brienne realised how hungry she was. However, before she could eat, she knew she had to make the formal introduction of Sansa and Tyrion.

As Tyrion got out of his chair, Brienne gestured towards him. "Tyrion, this is Mrs Sansa Bolton..."

"Miss Sansa Stark," corrected Sansa, shedding her name as well as a snake shed its skin.

"Miss Sansa Stark," continued Brienne, "my childhood friend. Sansa, this is Tyrion my... this is Tyrion Lannister."

Tyrion was gazing up at Sansa with a look of silent awe, even as he tried to give her a polite little bow. Sansa, on the other hand, looked positively horrified. "_Lannister,_" she spluttered, "as in _Jaime _Lannister? That beastly man who took advantage of you?"

All the colour went out of Tyrion's face at Sansa's statement and, as Jaime's brother was clearly winded by Sansa's comment, Brienne took charge. "Sansa, I am far too tired to tell you this story, but you should know that Jaime was as far from beastly as it is possible to be. The only reason that Tyrion and I are here tonight is that Jaime loved us both immensely and wanted a better life for us. That's why I am here to save you; he spiritually armed me with the strength I needed. So please, do not speak ill of the dead. It will only break my heart."

Sansa's mouth dropped open in shock at Brienne's statement but, sensing that Sansa wished to ask more questions, Tyrion interrupted. "Come, Miss Stark. Shall we sit down for dinner? We have a long day tomorrow, and it will be best done on a full stomach."

* * *

Dreams were funny things, Brienne thought. On the one hand, in the months after Jaime's death, she had been so determined to see their little house in the Americas with the two storeys, huge fireplace, and the orange tree be a reality that it had passed her by that dreams could be fulfilled in spirit if not actuality. When it turned out there were no ships that would take them to the Americas for days, Tyrion and Sansa had agreed they needed to take the next best option; three one way tickets to Australia later that evening.

"We cannot hang around in Wapping for long," Tyrion had said gently when Brienne had protested. "If we want to get out of here safely, Mr Bolton must not catch wind of where we are."

Consequently, Brienne had agreed on Australia but only with tear-filled eyes, because it meant the perfect house that she discussed with Jaime would never come true. At the loss of this dream of Jaime's, during the first night aboard the ship to Australia, Brienne bunked down in the little bed she shared with Sansa and cried herself to sleep, trying not to think about how much she had failed him.

Sansa stroked her hair. "Brienne, we can have a good life in Australia, I know it."

For Brienne, it was not enough. "It was not what _he _wanted for me."

"Jaime?"

"Jaime."

There was a momentary pause before Sansa asked, "will you tell me about him? How you fell in love?"

"One day," sniffed Brienne, trying to keep the memory of his green eyes at bay. "One day I will tell you, but it is too soon. But I promise... one day."

* * *

It was always too soon.

Too soon when they landed in Australia three months later. Too soon when they bought a small farm on the outskirts of Sydney and started growing vegetables. Too soon when Brienne planted the seeds for her orange tree, placing it so one day it would grow tall enough to see through her bedroom window. It was even too soon when Brienne wrote to the governor requesting the services of two convicts on their newly planted farm.

"Why those two?" asked Sansa quizzically as she read Brienne's letter, "of all the convicts in Australia, why those two?"

"Because I owe them," said Brienne simply.

When Pod and Mr Hunt turned up for their first day of work on the farm, they both nearly fainted when they saw who was waiting for them.

"Mr Flint?" gawked Pod, amazed. "What are you doing here?"

Brienne smiled at her little street urchin, before wrapping her arms around him in welcome. "Starting life afresh. What about you?"

"Five years hard labour for bodysnatching," sighed Pod. "It seems _such _a long time."

"At least you have time," replied Mr Hunt gruffly. "Unlike Mr Lannister."

_Unlike Mr Lannister, _thought Brienne sadly. As the days and weeks passed, there was much to do on the little farm, mainly digging irrigation ditches and putting up fences, and Brienne threw herself into the work alongside Mr Hunt and Pod. The hours were long and tiring, but Brienne found she enjoyed it, especially as made her too exhausted to think about the sadness now draped across her life.

Some days, the only time she allowed herself to think of Jaime was when she was tending to his orange tree. As she water it, weeded it, and generally made sure it was healthy, she would hear Pod singing in the field, or Sansa laughing at one of Tyrion's terrible jokes, or Mr Hunt snoring instead of working, and come to the conclusion that this new little family she had was all his doing. Yes, it had been built from the flotsam and jetsam of empire, poverty, and fear, but it was joined together in a collective understanding that Jaime's sacrifice had brought them all together, that his love had allowed them to create something new.

That feeling was only compounded when Brienne pushed a squalling eight pound baby boy out from between her thighs, with Sansa holding her hand and a convict by the name of Gilly acting as midwife.

"He looks very healthy, Mrs Lannister," Gilly had said gently as she brought the baby to Brienne, wrapped in swaddling clothes. "Have you thought of a name?"

Names were funny things. When she had first met Jaime, she had vehemently retreated from her own name, scared at how it would mark her out as different from the other boxers. In contrast, Jaime had wanted nothing more than to be recognised under his own name instead of the hated _Kingslayer _title he had forced upon him. Consequently, Brienne had no problem in adopting his name - Brienne Lannister - on arriving in Australia.

It also made naming the child quite simple.

"Jaime," she whispered. "His name is Jaime."

* * *

Little Jaime grew like his father's orange tree; slowly, surely, and only with great attention from Brienne. While at first, she was immensely sad to find that Little Jaime had her blue eyes, on the day she discovered they had changed to a verdant green she cried with joy.

"He looks like you," she whispered to the orange tree. "Like you, Jaime."

Brienne had thought it would be hard to be a mother. For years, she had been told her body was not womanly, that she did not have the softness or tenderness to be a parent. Jaime would have been a wonderful father, but at least in his absence she had her new family for support. Sansa loved holding little Jaime and cooing at him, Tyrion would always read him long passages from books to "get him prepared for his scholarly education", while Pod and Mr Hunt would get him toys and treats. Yet it was Brienne who fed him, put him to bed, and loved him as only his mother could. Rocking him to sleep, she would mumble songs in his ear, songs that told him half the truth but kept back the detail.

_"Oh Danny Flint there's no escape_

_The Fate the Gods have written_

_And life does seem the cruellest jape_

_Oh Brave Young Danny Flint."_

One evening when Brienne was putting Little Jaime to bed, Sansa entered the room, a blossoming smile on her face.

"What's got you so cheerful?" asked Brienne as she ran her fingers through the soft blond hair on her son's head.

Sansa's smile grew. "Tyrion. He's asked me to marry him."

"At last," laughed Brienne as she went to hug her friend. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," Sansa mumbled into Brienne's shoulder. "I never thought I would find such happiness. Not after Ramsay."

Brienne pulled back to look Sansa in the eye. "What will you do about him? You are already married; somebody could name you a bigamist."

"What? Like you, you mean?" teased Sansa.

"No, but I think you should be careful," replied Brienne gently. "Use a fake name. It will be harder for... _him_... if he is trying to find you."

Consequently, the local paper promptly announced the engagement of Tyrion Lannister and "Alayne Stone" in the nearby parish church, which Sansa then put around was her birth name. Nobody really seemed to mind; Last Hearth, as their little town had come to be known, was full of former criminals, ex-convicts, washed up aristocrats, and the lonely and the lost. The status that one had occupied in the Old World barely applied, and Brienne felt all the better for it.

This free dynamic meant that Mr Hyle Hunt, the bookmaker from the slums, felt able to ask Miss Brienne Tarth, daughter of Selwyn Tarth of Evenfall Hall to the wedding dance. Because she did not want to go alone, Brienne said yes.

At the party, Mr Hunt took Brienne in his arms and led her in a number of dances around the ballroom, her laughing her head off as he did so. Mr Hunt was a clumsy dancer and so was she, so they made a fabulous pair. They drank too much and tried the waltz, and he told her all about his childhood in Kirkcaldy, while she extemporised on what she remembered about the Isle of Wight.

The night ended when he walked her back to the house, where she knew that Gilly was watching Little Jaime. Not wanting to disturb her son, Brienne made Mr Hunt stop on the front doorstep to say his goodbyes.

"I have had a wonderful evening," Mr Hunt said, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. "I hope you will permit me to take you to another dance."

Brienne's stomach fell. Even after all this time, it felt like a betrayal.

"Mr Hunt, I..."

Before she could give him an excuse, he pressed his lips to hers. Mr Hunt was only the second man that Brienne had ever kissed and, while it was warm and strangely comforting, it was not what she wanted, so she pushed him away gently.

"Hyle..."

"Brienne..."

She took a deep breath. "I have very much enjoyed our time together this evening, and you know how much I esteem and value your friendship, but I do not wish to suggest something that cannot exist."

Mr Hunt furrowed his brow. "What do you mean? It could... if you gave us a chance."

Brienne shook her head firmly, hoping he would understand. "I am never going to marry. You only have three more years of servitude before you are free once more; you could find a woman who will genuinely love you. There are many women in Australia... many opportunities."

"There are many _men,_" Mr Hunt pointed out. "It is foolish to say you will never marry, when there is so much choice."

She gave him a pained smile. "I want none of them."

"Why?"

For a brief moment, she was back with her feet dangling in a cold pond in Edinburgh, with Jaime naked and bright-eyed in front of her. "Because there are no men like him. Only him."

* * *

It took fifteen years for Jaime's orange tree to bear its first fruit and Brienne thought it was a metaphor, somehow, because in that time the family that he had given his life for had also bloomed. Pod had married a local girl and had two little boys with her. Mr Hunt had scooped up a rich widow from Sydney, and the pair of them had bought one of the neighbouring farms. Tyrion and Sansa had also produced a brood of red-headed daughters; Jeyne, Elaena, Marya, Kiyara, and Lyanna. The couple had vowed that every single one of them would be literate and would know their own value.

"No abusive marriages for them," Sansa announced one day as Little Jaime helped Elaena with her homework. "They will know they are worth just as much as whichever young men they one day marry."

It was Little Jaime, however, that was the greatest joy in Brienne's life. Although he was freckly like her, in every other respect he was Jaime's son. He was golden-haired, green-eyed, and had a cutting smile that several local maids had become quite besotted with. If she did not already love her little son so much, the resemblance would have made her heart overflow.

Tyrion also doted on his young nephew and made sure he had the things that his father never did; an education, fancy clothes, _options. _Yet, all the same, Little Jaime was only interested in one thing.

Bare-knuckle boxing.

As Last Hearth grew, prize fights were regularly set up at the local pub, _The Last Light, _just as they had been many years before at _The Sellsword. _Mr Hunt once again became involved in his old trade as a bookkeeper, and Little Jaime would always harass him with questions about the sport.

"Mr Hunt, who do you think is the best boxer in the world?"

"How many boxers have you met?"

"Who is the best fighter you have ever seen?"

Brienne would always try and stop the conversation in its tracks by distracting him, but Little Jaime was never having any of objections. He was like his father in that way.

"But Ma, I want to go to the prize fight this weekend. _Salladhor Saan _is going to be there. He is one of the best fighters in the world, straight from the West Indies, and he is _here _in Last Hearth! I need to know everything I can before I meet him!"

"Meet him!" scoffed Brienne, "you are not going to meet him! Boxing is dangerous and I will not let you take part!"

Little Jaime had such a pretty nose, like his father. Brienne would have hated to see it broken.

Tyrion did not quite understand her objections. "If the poor boy wants to go, let him go. It's obviously an itch he cannot scratch that he needs to get out of his system..."

"No," Brienne had insisted, her throat tightening with emotion. "His _father _was a boxer and look where that got him."

Tyrion stiffened. There had been a silent agreement between them for many years that they would not casually talk about Jaime. "And you think that's what led to his death? That he was a boxer?"

Brienne remembered Jaime's fight with the Hound quite vividly, which had been violent, hard fought, and Jaime had come out of it with a split lip. It was nothing in comparison to how broken he had been that night in the jail cell, yet, even so, Brienne could not help but feel that one had led to another.

"No, of course not."

"Then why not let Little Jaime go and watch the fighting? He's a young lad; he'll get over this interest soon enough."

Under much pressure from Tyrion, Sansa, and Little Jaime, Brienne eventually relented, and even agreed to go and watch Salladhor Saan herself. The garden of _The Last Light _was set out for a fight, and Brienne could not help but feel she was drifting back into the past, backwards and backwards until the first night she had spoken to Jaime in the stables of _The Sellsword._

She tried to shake that feeling off by sitting on a blanket with Sansa and Tyrion, eating a few apple tarts that Sansa had smuggled in.

"I know nothing about bare-knuckle boxing," declared Sansa, before tucking into her tart. "Can you tell me about it, Tyrion?"

Tyrion laughed. "You'd be better off asking Brienne, she used to be a good fighter, or so Jaime used to tell me."

Sansa snapped her head round, her eyes bright with surprise. "Did you, Brienne? I never knew that. Why did you never tell me?"

_It was always too soon, _thought Brienne sadly. Even though she had promised Sansa many years ago that one day she would talk about Jaime, it had never happened. Some things were better left unsaid.

Luckily for her, at that moment the announcer got into the ring. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special treat for you tonight. Before the main event, Salladhor Saan has agreed to take on a local boy in a kind of teaching match, to encourage young people into the sport and show you, our lovely audience, the inner workings of boxing. So please, could you put your hands together for tonight's special guest. I would like to welcome to the stage... JAIME 'THE KINGSLAYER' LANNISTER."

When Little Jaime walked out into the ring, shirtless, looking every inch his father's son, Brienne had to clap a hand over her mouth to stop herself screaming. With his gold hair and green eyes, she was back in _The Sellsword _at the start of everything, and Jaime was back from the dead. Little Jaime gave a jaunty smile to the crowd, which set one girl off cheering. He was sunshine. He was light. It was too much.

Brienne only realised she was sobbing with tears rolling down her cheeks when she felt Sansa's hand on her shoulder.

"Brienne!" her friend cried. "Whatever is the matter?"

Not having the words to answer, Brienne scrabbled to her feet and made to dash out of the pub garden, not wanting to watch this spectacle for a moment more, although not before she heard Tyrion's response.

"She has just seen a ghost."

* * *

In the days after the prize fight, Brienne could barely look at Little Jaime. It was not that he himself had done anything wrong, it was just that his boxing appearance had dragged up the past so acutely that Brienne had felt the full brunt of its sting for the first time in years. Therefore, wanting some time alone, Brienne left the house early and, taking an orange from Jaime's tree, she decided to go for a walk.

Luckily for her, the coast was not very far away, so it meant she could stroll along, trying to think of something else while she gazed at the never ending blue of the sea.

_You love it here, don't you, wench?_

_Yes, Jaime, I do. You would have loved it too._

_I know, my love. I know._

By lunchtime she was halfway back to the house when she saw someone coming up the sea path. It was Little Jaime.

"Ma," he said nervously as he reached her, biting his lip. "I hope you enjoyed your walk."

"I did," replied Brienne gently. She did not want to cause any worry, not when he was looking so confused.

He paused for a moment, weighing up his words, before saying, "I'm sorry if I upset you it's just... I don't understand."

She took his hand, finding the warm heat of his palm comforting. "What don't you understand?"

"Why you are upset," he began tentatively. "Uncle Tyrion said it was because I used the name _Kingslayer, _but I thought that would make you proud. Mr Hunt told me what a renowned boxer my father was, and I just wanted to feel close to him. So I thought I would use his nickname for the fight."

"Your father never liked that name. He just wanted to be called Jaime. That's what upset me, nothing more."

Little Jaime started to look somewhat irritated. "But how was I meant to know that? You've never spoken to me about him. It's always _not now, soon, later. _All I know is from little snippets from Uncle Tyrion about his childhood or from Mr Hunt about his boxing career. _You _have never spoken to me about him at all."

Brienne suddenly felt a great weight of guilt fall on her shoulders. In her grief, she had tried to keep Jaime to herself, when really, he belonged to everybody and nobody more so than his son. "You can ask me anything you like," she replied softly, "anything you want about him."

Little Jaime's first question cut deep. "Are you ashamed of him?"

"No," Brienne snapped back, horrified that this was what Little Jaime thought. "Not at all. If anything, I am proud of him. It's just that... some things are hard to talk about."

Little Jaime stepped forward and took her hand, his green eyes shining. "Then let me make it easy for you. Why don't you tell me a story? Tell me the story of my father."

_Let me go, wench, _he said distantly. _It's time to let me go..._

Brienne knew he was right. Squeezing Little Jaime's hand tighter, Brienne turned to look out to the sea - the endless blue that he had loved so much - and thought of Jaime. She tried to picture him how he had truly been, undistorted by the years of mourning that followed. Once she had grasped him, Brienne turned to face their son.

"Once, I met a bare-knuckle boxer called Jaime Lannister, who really hated the name Kingslayer. He was the best man I have ever known."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I need to look up what the word "bittersweet" means, but I hope you enjoyed that. I've really loved writing this story, it's something totally different from what I normally do, so I'm really glad you've stayed for the journey.
> 
> Now, the snap poll about what I should write next narrowly came out for... Big Cop 2. So, expect the sequel to that in the next few days (which will be fluff city central). After that, Ice Cream Anthology 5.
> 
> Once again, I love to hear from you in the form of kudos and comments, so I hope you consider leaving them!


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